


Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x08: "Holiday"

by frogfarm



Series: Faith the Vampire Slayer [17]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Dreamsharing, F/F, Mind Meld
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 21:51:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13579632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frogfarm/pseuds/frogfarm
Summary: Willow decides it's high time for a vacation. But this island paradise is no fantasy...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This series is regretfully still abandoned, but here at least is the complete version of the final episode, six years after it was first posted. For once, I think the dream sequence is the best part.
>
>>   
> _It is a curious fact about camp life that if a girl has weak places in her character, if she is selfish or peevish or faultfinding or untidy, these weaknesses will all come out._  
>  \- Jeanette Marks
> 
>   
> 
>
>>   
> _When you looked at me, I should have run_  
>  But I thought it was just for fun...  
> \- The Go-Go's

 

 

 

Trickles of sweat fill his ears, drip down and sting his eyes. Still the densely packed growth yields to the swing of his machete as David presses on, wielding the blade with an expert hand. With the last of the water used up days ago, constant thirst hovers at the edge of his thoughts, now ready to rend the throat of the nearest living thing for a drop of precious blood.

"Interesting metaphor." Faith adjusts the brim of her cap. A single flex of her chiseled jaw sends a thoroughly masticated stogie from one side of her mouth to the other. "Going full silence of the lambs?"  
  
David frowns, trying to work out this latest puzzle. "Why are you here?"

"You tell me." The Slayer surveys their surroundings with a practiced eye. "Maybe the universe's way of keeping you honest."

"No work for an honest man." David turns away and resumes cutting their path. The foliage is growing thinner, a familiar scent filling the air.

"Shine a little light." Faith points up ahead. "End of the tunnel?"

David's stomach rolls upon itself as they enter the clearing, his senses overwhelmed by the sickly-sweet aroma that pervades the air.

"Gingerbread?"

"And a white picket fence." Faith pulls out a pair of night goggles and holds them to her eyes, vigorously spinning the dials. "Reading some pretty high nostalgia."

"You think you know me?" David shakes his head and unbuttons the holster at his side. "That's not me. It never was."

"Most people dream about power. Getting it...using it." The Slayer nods as they arrange themselves on either side of the door, weapons drawn. "You dream about being normal."

He returns the nod. "How would I know what that is?"

Their boots meet the door as one, send it flying from sugary hinges to shatter like so much spun glass. David slips inside, hugging the wall with shallow breath and parched tongue, wishing for a gas mask to insulate himself from the overpowering atmosphere of confectionary doom.

"Crackhead secret agent." Faith points two fingers at the doorway leading to the kitchen.

"No life of my own," David agrees. "You want to do the honors?"

"Much obliged."

"What's this?" The portly chef at the stove spins about with a screech, pins flying from underneath an enormous hat. "What are you doing in my house?"

Faith moves forward with death in her eye. "Just taking out the trash."

The squawk of outrage turns to a shriek as Faith spins her target around. David's boot meets an ample rear end, propelling the witchy woman headfirst into her own oven.

"That's that." Faith slams the door shut and cranks up the heat, dusting off her hands before removing her gloves, giving her knuckles a thorough crack. "So when do you get to have a life?"

David slumps into a chair, abruptly exhausted. "What kind of a life?"

"Any kind." Faith joins him, kicking her feet up and blowing an impressive smoke ring. "Anything outside the lines."

"Which ones?" He stares at the billowy curtains, the cast iron trivet with its amusing homespun wisdom. "From the people who give the orders? Who sign the checks?"

"No paperwork. All direct deposit." Faith nods at the thin stream of green smoke beginning to leak from the oven door. "When was the last time you filled out a requisition? For anything? Ever?"

David wonders if he's dreaming her. Maybe they're dreaming each other. With the walls so thin of late between their separate realities, anything seems possible.

"I'm not my own man," he admits. "Old news. Game hasn't changed."

"Got that right." Faith glances at the fire extinguisher that hangs on the wall. "You're just seeing more of the board."

"Good." David smiles, feeling reassured. "Need to know the big picture."

"Knowledge?" And now it's the redhead sitting across the table, sadly regarding him like a disappointing child. "Not always power."

David blinks as the world threatens to shift. "Who are you?"

"Funny." Willow takes a dainty sip of tea. "I had you pegged as the _what do you want_ type."

"I said --"

"I heard you." The air is growing thicker, fumes billowing from the oven, forming a noxious fog. "I'm the one standing in your way."

"Boot on my neck? Don't push me." David places the gun on the table, gives it a spin like a lovesick teen's bottle. "I won't push back."

"You're out of your depth." Willow stares back, unsmiling. "In over your head."

The gun comes slowly to a stop.

Aimed directly at him.

"And the devil will drag you under."

 

 

David sits up with a stifled cough, blinking away the last remnants of sleep, the light of day filtering through cracked and shabby blinds. It takes a moment for him to orient, the state of nervous tension diminishing on recognition of his surroundings. Wyndham-Pryce's former apartment had been conveniently located close to the target, and he'd judged the Slayer unlikely to return after cleaning the place out. Whether hollow or merely empty, the dust-laden, decrepit chambers had been the perfect atmosphere to accompany his state of mind.

He rises from the floor, grabbing the jacket that doubled as a pillow. An odd weight makes him look down, and David stops in his tracks at the sight of an ornate crucifix, dangling from a chain. Hanging there like some great awkward albatross around his neck, alien and unfamiliar, divorced from all memory or historical context. Did he pick it up before the gun, or after? The Roman candles in Chinatown? And how unfair was it, he mused, that the homeless had so much more to fear from vampires?

The foul tap water gives him pause, and he cracks the bottle in his coat pocket, brushing teeth and tongue with two fingers. Some quick calisthenics to get the blood moving; help slow the constant racing thoughts to something approaching a dull roar. Faith might be able to get a good head start, but he can keep any pace she sets and then some. All he has to do is...

A horrible notion grips him, as he remembers magic is real.

_We spell it with a K_ , a cheerful redhead chirps inside his mind. David rubs his eyes and shakes his head.

"They wouldn't." He's at the table in two strides, cracking open the stolen laptop. His hands are slightly unsteady as he brings up the spycam. "Not this soon. Not without another emergency. They wouldn't teleport again. They just..."

He stares at the screen, reflecting a deserted room.

_Or they would._

On second thought?

Looks like there _is_ time for coffee.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"No Titanic. Please, for the love of --"

Willow holds up both hands, fingers spread well apart. "Check."  
  
"No Gilligan's Island."

"That's going back a ways." Willow smiles. "Aren't you afraid of showing your age?"

Faith resolutely ignores this. "No Poseidon Adventure."

"Were you even alive back then?" Willow stomps one foot. "Hurry up!"

The Slayer levels a glare. "You promise?"

"Girl Scout's honor." Willow takes a deep breath. "As soon as we --"  
  
Faith raises one finger in obvious warning.

"Oh, come on!" Willow backs away, looking over one shoulder. "It's supposed to be a vacation!"

Faith takes a deep breath, pauses, and heaves a sigh. "Get it over with."

Willow turns and sprints up the gangplank, heading for the prow of the ship, warbling an off-kilter tune in her wake.

> _"LOOOOOVE...  
>  EXCITING AAAND NEEEEWWWW..."_

With a last longing look at the shore, her girlfriend follows.

_Some vacation._

 


	2. Chapter 2

>   
>  _Basic research is what I am doing when I don't know what I am doing._   
> 
> 
> \- Richard Feynman

 

 

 

**Faith the Vampire Slayer  
Year One**

 

by [frogfarm](http://archiveofourown.org/users/frogfarm/)

 

absent editorial by strapping_lass  
awesome erudition by sam_arkand  
angsty equinism by somercet

 

**1x08:**

**"Holiday"**

 

 

 

 

It was the butterflies he loved most at this time of year.

Of course everything rose and fell with the seasons, were equally subject to change like his notoriously mercurial whims. Beauty and opinion being what they were, it was only natural those should vary also, though he eschewed any and all contact that might provoke a clash of tastes. This was his domain, from the height of the falls with its stunning view from the cliffs to the secret grotto under the reefs. By conquest and right did he hold these lands, and none could gainsay him.

Although the jellyfish were becoming a problem. A tad too aggressive.

A swirl of black detaches from the fabric of reality, partially coalescing into a shifting jumble. Its skin is a sink that draws in all surrounding light, and while its shape is perpetually variable its size remains no greater than that of a small dog. Albeit one with an enormous shadow.

"There's no need." His smile is bathed in the chill that emanates from the tiny void. "They'll be here soon."

The silent roiling intensifies to an icy wind.

With a glance of annoyance, he makes a rude gesture or offhand wave. The blankness recoils and vanishes, leaving a faint miasma in its wake, and a bitter smile graces the magician's lips as he surveys the glorious natural habitat. Whatever shadow passed over has returned to its rightful place, in hiding.

"Leavin' rainbows and puppies once more the rule of the day." A clucking tongue disturbs his reverie. "Or should that be _rue_ the day?"

"I can unmake you," the magician snaps, turning on his wayward creation. "Your conversation is more trouble than it's worth."

"You did what you could with what you had." An enormous grin splits the already distorted face.

"And for my efforts, the most willful of all my -- no. Spare me your attempts at witticism, and make ready for our guests." He pointedly ignores the void tickling at the the edge of his vision, threatening to reform. "And do remember to set out water this time, along with the liquor."

"Dehydration's an ugly thing." The familiar -- he still thinks of it as such, though it long ago passed that level of simplicity -- points a claw at the growing bubble of darkness. "You gonna get that?"

With clenched teeth and another glare at his supposed servant, the magician raises one hand. The void dares to speak.

_Tell us again._ The ringing in his ears grows stronger, the air slashed with streaks of night. _Tell us all about it --_

"Enough!"

The magician brings his hands together. A contortion ripples throughout the disturbance, and it twists and curls like a bug in a flame, vanishing once more without a trace. Apart from the charred crater in the grass, as the shockwaves die away.

"Impressive." The familiar examines the circle, grabbing a branch and giving the still-glowing ashes a careful prod. "A lost cause. But all the more impressive for that."

"Enough." But the magician's voice is weak, and his glare lacks its former fierceness.

"It's getting worse." The familiar tosses the branch into the circle, where it disappears in a brief gout of flame. "Fight or deny all you want -- but you're not doing yourself any favors." The creature eyes the lump of coal that used to be a perfectly good stick. "Or this place."

"Hold your tongue --" The terrible effort required to remain upright nearly makes him weep. "To abandon these sacred lands after the price I paid? That I continue to pay with each and every rise and fall of the sun?"

"Maybe you should ask for a refund." The familiar is as close to grave as the magician can ever recall hearing. "Come on, boss. Give it a rest."

"I could slave until I breathe my last." Ignoring the pain, the magician stands tall, without magic or his staff. "And it would never be enough."

The familiar knows what comes next. "And still you try."

The magician nods, turning and gazing over the sea.

"She _will_ have vengeance."

 

 

* * *

 

 

If only she could relax.

This is stupid, Faith thinks to herself. As if there were anyone else she could think to

( _ssh_ )

( _you don't have to talk_ )

but this is fast approaching stupidity of the highest order. Maybe she has, on occasion, been a little bit high strung. But she is also far from a complete stranger to the lost art of chilling the hell out. There had been plenty of time to adjust to the idea of going on vacation -- Willow practically needed forms in triplicate with a witness and signature before she'd believe you really wanted to do something. So it's not like this came out of nowhere. The only abruptness had been a quick teleport to the coast, where they emerged from a bait shed by the harbor brandishing fully packed bags. Loaded for bear; ready for leisure at all cost.

Of course this little venture isn't costing them a cent. Not thanks to a certain nosybody madame and her high fructose corn syrup daddy, David Nabbit. Which in itself has been a burr under Faith's saddle, that for all it makes her want to buck is just too much trouble to think about. Willow wanted a real vacation, and it didn't seem to matter that she was a witch powerful enough to instantly teleport them anywhere on or off the planet. A proper vacation meant a cruise. Ergo, cruising. One phone call from Dorian, and the deed was done.

Okay. Maybe she hasn't fully adjusted.

"Still wish we'd brought the bike." Perched as near the prow as possible given passenger liability concerns, Faith is taking advantage of the open air to indulge in one of her few remaining cigarettes. She hadn't thought to stock up, and conversations with the crew had left her dubious on the subject of resupply.

"A motorcycle." Willow's feet, in contrast, are firmly planted on deck. The redhead holds a floppy sun hat in place to protect her complexion, a pair of huge sunglasses completing her armor. Frankly, the shielding seems a lost cause given the vast expanse of flesh left exposed by her sarong. Or as Faith thinks, _'sallright_.

"Why not?" Faith pinches out her smoke and pockets the filter. Two to go. "Folks take cars on ships."

"Those are bigger ships."

"And a bike's not a car. Come on. This isn't some rinky-dink Fisher-Price tub."

Faith makes a vague gesture encompassing the entirety of the boat. Her assessment seems accurate: Big enough to require more than a skeleton crew, plus afford them some much-needed buffer space from the handful of other passengers. Privacy seems to be at a premium since they left small-town America behind. It's enough to make her nostalgic for Katie's hometown. Even Ruby's.

"I'm not saying it couldn't be done," Willow replies, quite reasonably. "But where are you going to ride it? Not like it's an off-road vehicle."

"Where we're going, we don't need..." Faith's eyes drift down milky smooth belly, dipping into hips, over navel. "Clothes."

"Anyway," Willow concludes with a blush. "It's hundreds of miles from here. In storage, under lock and key. Not to mention the best wards I could conjure."

The redhead's smile belies her underlying tension, and Faith doesn't press the issue. While having a totally badass bike is the very definition of cool, it's also more romantic than practical no matter what your situation. Which in hers, makes the felony charges hanging overhead a guaranteed fast track right back to the slammer.

"Relaxed yet?" Willow leans on the railing, looking out over the endless expanse. "I only ask because you're normally so inscrutable."

"Least I'm not unscrewable." Faith resists a smirk as she continues to check out the other view.

"Says you," Willow scoffs. "Getting you to unwind is like putting champagne back in the bottle."  
  
"So you're saying I'm a tightass?" Faith's query rings intentionally false, with the barest show of innocence. "All work, no fun?"

"I'm just saying, it's not even a month since -- we've been on our own."

Faith doesn't touch that one either.

"And it's been kind of hectic. And before that it was non-stop Council, almost ever since we got out of Sunnydale." Willow takes a deep sniff of the sea air, exhaling in obvious delight. "And I think we deserve some quality time off. Before we get too wrapped up in the daily grind of business as usual."

_Deserve_. Probably the only part Faith isn't so sure about. Though at this point, it's pretty much say anything to keep the conversational ball in the air.

"Just thinkin' about gettin' back in." Her diction feels like it's slipping again, making her sound like a damn rube. Faith quashes a flicker of irritation, concentrating on keeping boot from mouth. "Not as easy as out."

Willow cocks her head. "That's not a metaphor for prison, is it?"

Faith smiles despite herself. "Back into the states."

"You're probably right." Willow nods. "Reentry could get tricky without magickal assistance."

She's expecting the witch's next words to be something obvious pointing out the obvious, and that Faith should just chill. Instead she gets another curve ball.

"You want to try meditating again?"

"It was easier --" The words are out before Faith can think twice. "Then."

Willow looks confused. Faith clarifies as concisely as possible. "Prison."

"Right." At least Will doesn't make a sign of the cross -- metaphorical, of course -- every time she hears the word now. Still, its effect is obvious.

"You remember," Faith adds. Unnecessarily; it's not a question though she knows her own memories of Willow, shared in their mindwalk over a year ago, have faded more than just a little. The experience was unforgettable, but the details are growing increasingly fuzzy. In some ways, she's glad.

"Yeah. I mean -- enough." Willow frowns like she's just realizing the same thing. "Not a lot."

"You're forgiven." Faith almost goes for another smoke before remembering how few are left. "Not a time I sit around scrapbookin'."

She lets her eyes drift shut as she listens to the waves, relying on balance to keep from tipping overboard. When Willow speaks again, it's a complete and welcome change of subject.

"You ever go fishing?"

"Well, Boston -- did my share of eating." Faith chuckles in reminiscence. "Every guy thinks the seafood platter's the way into your coral caves."

Willow grimaces prettily -- Faith doesn't think the redhead is capable of any other kind. "May I say that is your worst metaphor yet?"

"You just did." A curious diversion occurs to Faith. "So what all's kosher under the sea?"

"Distraction from awkward metaphor, most welcome. Uh..." Willow goes blank for a moment to process. "Kosher fish are born in water, live in water, have scales and fins you can see without a microscope...usually has a spine...no shellfish --"

"I could learn to share." Faith goes for the faux pause. "Some things."

"-- and if it's a swimming creature like a seahorse, a squid, or a lobster -- or that one aquatic demon whose name I can never remember -- then it's not considered a fish. And not kosher, either." Willow takes a deep breath, looking lightheaded. "I dunno. Fishing always seemed like -- kind of a guy thing."

"What if the boat goes tits up and we gotta play Tom Hanks?" Faith inquires. "I get to be the lone mighty hunter?"

"I...actually have more of a problem with hunting. Honest hunting, even. But..." Willow struggles momentarily. "At least it's honest."

Faith nods. Some memories aren't so easily forgotten. "No shining."

Willow blinks. "Pardon?"

Faith clarifies.

"Cheating."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"And so I told her -- honey? You expect _me_ to pick up the tab, you _better_ be worth it."

He moves among the sheep, a silent shadow. Disguised as one of them; wreathed in smoke and smiles.

"I tried, man. Psycho wench does _not_ want to be in your background. Thought she was gonna pitch my phone overboard."

"Screw her. Plenty more fish in the sea..."

Peering from within the confines of this mortal flesh, that crawls at their forced attempts at intimacy. Their wretched camaraderie of lies.

"Sweetie, did you read this brochure? That can't be right. Listen to this..."

And forever searching for the one.

"Did you pack my Dramamine? You didn't, did you?"

Exulting in the squirming ecstasy of decision yet unborn.

"Are you _trying_ to kill me?"

_Which one will it be?_

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Tanks for riding No Frills Angels an' Demons. We see you real soon." The beefy steward tips his hat and a wink. "Unless the island spirits decide to keep you for themselves."

"We're kind of high maintenance." Willow accepts the lei with a gracious smile. Inwardly, she finds herself hoping she won't have to elbow Faith into being pleasant. Again.

"Thanks, Tiny." The Slayer's wry grin is at least lacking in overt disgust as she fingers the blossoms around her own neck. "It's good. I got it."

"Oh, is no --" The steward's jaw loosens as Faith squats, grabs all of their luggage and rises in one smooth motion. "Problem?"

"No problem." Faith returns a wink to the flabbergasted man. "We see you real soon."

"Show off." Willow gives her a hearty punch in the arm as they disembark. The dock is small, barely adequate for single file progression, covered in decades of encrusted barnacle. On shore, a number of passengers have clustered around a small refreshment cart and are looking about for its proprietor, apparently in vain.

"Don't see you lifting. Or offering. Or complaining..." Faith's mouth is suddenly dry. "You want an icy?"

"Aw." Willow beams with pride. "Is my little pack mule getting thirsty?"

"Come a little closer and say that." Faith adjusts her grip, shifting on one foot.

"Can't catch me, I'm the gingerbread woman!"

"To the moon, Alice!"

At least Faith's mood has improved since they set sail. Probably relief at having cleared customs, or the lack thereof. Still, Willow figures it's hard for even a diehard city girl to stay grumpy too long surrounded by this much great outdoors. The sand itself is pristine, bleached white as bone; even the trees thrum with energy, down to each blade of grass.

Willow frowns. A fleeting wrongness is gone, before she can pinpoint it.

"What's up?"

"Mm." Willow shakes her head to clear the dizzy. "This place is powerful."

"Shit," Faith grumbles under her breath. "Knew we should have brought the sword."

Willow gives her an uncomprehending look.

"Say the dead start to walk. Again." Faith shrugs easily under the heavy load. "And one of us goes down. How many of these fine specimens you think can step up to the plate?"

"Wow." Willow considers. "No...no, letting it sink in doesn't seem to be helping, and I apologize in advance if I sound overly critical --"

"If you tell me I need to _relax_." Faith cuts in.

"Every where has its why. Some are just -- darker than others." _Too defensive,_ Willow thinks. "Just because a force of nature isn't truly sentient doesn't mean it's not out to get you. The trick is to not take it personally."

"Excuse me?" This timid query comes from the short woman with the flowery hat that could hold ten of Willow's own. "Have you seen anyone? I don't want to sound like an alcoholic, but I _did_ pay for an open bar --"

"Oh thank Christ." The cowboy, as Willow thinks of him -- a blonde, twentyish surfer type with an incongruous Southern twang -- wears a look of profound relief as he pulls open the doors of the refreshment cart to begin liberating its contents. "What are y'all havin'? Drinks are on me."

"I don't think --" The timid girl's flusterment rises to outright fidgeting. Faith has set their bags down, her eyebrow cocked at the sight of the amateur mixologist at work.

"Here you go, ma'am. Finest Mai Tai on tap." A wink accompanies the tiny umbrella. "And your Thai stick."

The recipient's titter results in an eyeroll from Faith and a hidden smile from Willow. Cow-man is already turning to the Slayer with anticipation in his eyes, but something in Faith's own apparently gives him pause.

"Let's, uh...catch some rays." With a nervous look over his shoulder, the cowboy leads his victim away down the path to the beach. "You know who you remind me of?"

Willow glances behind them. The bickering older couple are still at it, having settled into the rhythmic routine that only comes from years of practice. The other stragglers are consulting brochures, some gazing wistfully at the boat as it pulls away from the dock.

"This place has the right idea," Willow proclaims, rummaging through the cart. "No human servants. No embarrassing cultural sterotypes trying to awkwardly greet you."

"Native girls are nice." Faith's lips twitch in that almost-smile.

"Just a bunch of shaved ice, an open bar...and all the fresh coconut you could want." Willow produces her furry prize with a flourish before offering it to Faith with a bashful smile.

"Self-sufficient pioneer woman." Faith looks around to find noone watching. Planting her thumbs firmly in the coconut's eyes, she gives it a hearty crack, handing it back before it can leak on her.

"Ew!" Willow laughs, trying to lick her hands and pour at the same time. "I mean, thank you. Now I demand...one of every girly drink!"

"Hm." Faith leaves it at that.

"What?" As usual, this only fuels the fire of Willow's reaction. A random image of beach bunny bikini Faith threatens distraction before she wrenches her thoughts back on track. "Are you saying I can't hold my liquor?"

Faith lifts one eyebrow, upping the ante with an eloquent shrug.

"All right. One each...of the top ten..." Willow scrambles for a split second to find a compromise that will save some face. "Most girliest!"

Faith offers a thoughtful frown. "Names or ingredients?"

"They are sometimes contradictory," Willow concedes. "Let's narrow the competition. Both."

Faith doesn't miss a beat. "Pink Russian."

Willow sighs. "This could get ugly."

 

 

* * *

 

 

The magician is deep in thought when his servant returns. For the familiar, this is nothing new. Also generally bodes not well.

"Looks good from here, boss."

"Of course it does, eighthwit." His master doesn't turn around. "Now bugger off to your own nether regions before I grind you up and use you for spell stock."

The familiar appears suitably impressed. "I thought meditation was supposed to improve your mood."

"You thought." The magician cocks his head, staring at the stretch of sand below as if to imprint it forever upon his sight. "And therein lies the problem."

"Maybe your guests got the right idea," the familiar suggests. "Maybe what you really need is a little _medication._ "

The magician exhales exasperation from both nostrils, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

"Wink wink?" the familiar offers. "Nudge nudge, say no..."

The magician turns a petrifying stare upon his servant.

"More." With a sigh of its own, the familiar proffers a sarcastic salute before folding both leathery arms, settling into a sulky crouch.

"You were created to do my bidding," the magician declares. "To ease my burden by attending to the smallest of matters. And while you may be forgiven some level of presumption, let neither of us ever forget who is the master."

The creature's only reply is the wheezing rasp of its breath, and a silent stare more of impatience than open resentment.

"But I understand. It's no easy thing, to be alone." The magician's gaze softens. "It's why they come."

"Hello? Colorful brochure?" The familiar lowers its hand with another heavy sigh. "Fine. See if _I_ ever offer to do another website."

"This place will help them." The magician nods, gazing at the tiny figures dotting the beach. "Just as it did before."

The familiar shakes its head before disincorporating back into the ether.

"We'll do better." The magician ignores the light mist floating away on the breeze. He leans heavily on his staff, wholly focused on the people crawling like ants below. His lips purse in a thin line, the iron bars of his greying moustache aquiver.

"This time."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"This is _so_ good. Are you sure you don't want some -- oops." Willow finishes slurping the last of the coconut water from her hollowed out shell. "Too late."

"You're loving this, aren't you?" The tiny, deep-down annoyance is more than outweighed in Faith's mind by a rare sense of contentment. For better or worse, this Willow is almost the girl she first met way back when. Once upon a time.

"We still have to climb that to get to our cottage." Willow points at the string of buildings scattered about the hillside far above. "You up for it?"

"Piece of pie." Faith adjusts her grip on the lefthand suitcase. "Course, you couldn't just put all _this_ in your wormhole."

"That sounds so not right."

"Nah," Faith continues, leading the way along the narrowing path. "That'd be too easy."

"But honey, I thought you _loved_ being all strong for me." Even without a direct visual, Willow's batted eyelashes are more than audible. "I suppose I could carry _something_..."

Faith is not surprised at all to see a hand dip into her shoulder bag from behind, emerging with the other coconut.

"You want that open?" the Slayer casually inquires. "Cause the cracker's union just went on strike."

"You think I can't get this open without magic?" Willow's response is almost a challenge. "I'm not totally lost in the wilderness."

Faith ducks a hanging branch, blowing away a passing bug that threatens to fly up her nose. "Were you really a girl scout?"

"I really was," Willow proudly proclaims. "For a whole two weeks."

"Lemme guess. More Mom stories?"

"I vacillated between hoping my parents would pay more attention to me and praying they wouldn't." Willow's chuckle is slightly lacking in humor. "With Mom, there was a bit more prayer involved."

"Yeah," Faith replies, with her own hint of dryness. "I wouldn't know anything about that."

"Of course not." Willow is starting to sound winded, but the sympathy is evident. "So, how much --"

Faith halts at the garden entrance, staring into the tangled maze within.

"Huh." Willow frowns. "I don't think this was in the brochure."

"What's that say?" Faith indicates a carved wooden post by the gate, covered in vines.

"Welcome traveler. Find the center..." Willow pulls away the vines, squinting at the words beneath. "...to find your way?"

"Mystic riddles. Always fun." Faith clicks her tongue in annoyance. "Oh wait, that's _never_."

"I don't think it's mystical," Willow says. "Not any more than usual."

"Because every place is magickal somehow." Faith doesn't actually respond with an eyeroll, but her tone is clear. "We gotta get through this to get to our beds?"

"Looks like." Willow peers inside the maze, craning her neck to scope out the paths. "Do we have a contingency plan if a wild David Bowie appears?"

"I'd do him." Too late, Faith realizes she spoke before thinking. Then again, that's sort of how that works.

"So would --" Willow covers up a cough. "Well -- once upon a time."

"Do tell." Faith doesn't bother to hide the smirk.

"We should figure out what kind of maze this is," Willow continues, with the usual cleared throat and scarlet cheeks. "We'll assume two dimensions for now. Any bridges, it might be a weave --"

"Meaning?"

"Oh -- let's not go needlessly complicating things." Willow steps through the entrance and reaches out, touching the left wall. "That bit about _find the center_? Makes me think this is a labyrinth. Not a maze."

"What's the difference? Short version," Faith amends.

"A maze is a series of paths. And it can have blind alleys. A labyrinth -- and I swear I'm not trying not to giggle every time I say that word --" Willow coughs. "Has a single path."

"Huh." Faith can see the obvious parallels. "So one's a comment on my relationships, and the other's a hint on taking my time?"

"Sometimes a Jungian archetype is just a Jungian archetype." Willow indicates her hand on the wall. "If this is an actual labyrinth -- then this little trick should get us to the other side. Or, put us back here. But it _won't_ get us lost."

Faith can see the downside. "And if it's not so simple?"  
  
"Like you always say. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." Willow's impatience gives way to more sympathy. "Want me to carry something?"

"I'm good." Faith follows into the maze, nodding at the connection between Willow's fingers and the wall of foliage. "You just keep track of where we're going."

"How bad can it be? And before you answer that --" Willow looks down at her right hand, realizing she's still carrying the other coconut. "We're paying to be here. Well -- _someone_ paid."

( _they all pay_ )

Faith blinks, then remembers the source of that one. A flush of heat rises in her belly at the memory of that tiny deep South motel room.

( _one way or another..._ )

The Slayer licks her lips. "Gimme."

"I was -- okay." Willow meekly hands over the coconut. Apparently Faith's expression is convincing.

"Go on." Faith sets down their bags, stretching her shoulders before turning her attention to the fruit, or nut, or whatever the hell it is. "You were sayin'."

"I was sayin' -- um...paying. Right." Willow gestures with her now free hand. "This is probably just some perfectly harmless, totally Disneyfied touristy...thingamajobby."

"A for English, huh?" Faith is only half listening as she finds a promising location for both thumbs, getting a decent grip. "Could have fooled me."

"They wouldn't stay in business long if they starved their customers. And what are the odds they want the liability headache if someone gets lost and can't find their cabin? Willow shakes her head. "Careful --"

A mighty crack fills the air. A nearby flock of birds leap from the bushes into the air, squawking as they fly away.

"Damn!" Faith holds the shell steady, quickly bringing it to her lips. A good deal ends up on the ground and their luggage despite her efforts. Still, more than enough to assuage her thirst. At least the regular kind.

Willow picks up the shoulder bag before Faith can protest. "Better?"

Faith makes an appreciative sound, which is apparently sufficient to result in a similar look from Willow. And she wasn't even trying. This bodes well for later. Assuming they can find the damn cabin. Don't want to risk poison ivy getting jiggy in the great outdoors.

"Here." She snaps the remaining fragment of coconut in two, handing half to Willow before hoisting up their bags with a nod. "Lead on, MacLeod."

"There can be only one...girl in all the world." Willow proceeds down the path with a chuckle. " _Until now..._ "

While her girlfriend's assessment is accurate as far as her appreciation for nature goes, Faith has no problem admitting this is something else. The fact that she has no clue what country they're even in only makes it more of a good time. She'd been expecting hot and humid, as befit the jungle, but an ocean breeze is still evident this far inland. As for the garden of forking paths, like everything else it's at least nice to look at. Nothing too elaborate, not overly maintained or literally clean-cut; just the right amount of wild.

"This way." Willow nods left, keeping her outstretched hand on the tightly knit thicket of branch and twig. "And yes, I hardly think I was the only girl who had ravishment thoughts regarding that movie."

"You mean the the United States of Bowie?"

"Oh, even after I watched it later on? After, uh...well, after Tara it was like -- it was okay to want to _be_ Sarah? But thinking about wanting _her_ always made me feel..." Willow's face crinkles. "Like a real pervert."

Faith's chortle spurs another flock of birds into taking wing, practically bowling one another over in their haste. The Slayer watches them disappear into the sky with a twinge of something like regret. _Lynyrd Skynrd, take me away..._

Luckily, as far as matters of a carnal nature go, Willow seems to be in a more receptive mood than usual. As far as distractions go, that's always been a winner.

"Carryin' a hairy pair in your purse there." Faith is definitely proud of that one. "Anything you want to get off your chest?"

"Please." Willow takes a bite of coconut flesh, delicately spitting out a fragment of shell. "You can do so much better. And before you ask -- yes, we have no bananas."

"So you ever..." Near discarding the initial idea, Faith finds herself instead abandoning all hesitation. No idea when she'll get another chance like this. "You ever think about B?"

Willow looks over, with only the tiniest hint of embarrassment. "Do you really want to start comparing notes on that particular jar of home-fried wormy goodness?"

"Hey, we're not playin' chicken. Truth or dare, whatever." _Definitely too defensive_ , Faith thinks. "Just an honest question."

Willow is silent as they approach another junction. Faith's on the verge of actual regret when the silence is broken.

"She was everything I wasn't." The redhead's voice is more subdued. "But she made it okay to be who I was."

"Guess so." Faith thinks she can't, or doesn't want to help, the not so tiny sliver of sullen. "Too bad I never got that, huh?"

Willow is quiet again. Faith anticipates some gentle reprisal pointing out all the water under the bridge; how this is but a brief detour around the swamp without getting sucked into the whirlpool. Or maybe something about how Faith was the one to bring up Buffy anyway, and how are they supposed to put the past behind them if one of them is always --

"You know, I really liked you." Willow gives Faith a brief sideways glance before returning her gaze to the path. "When we first met."

Faith snorts. "Yeah. I was a real pip."

"I won't say I wasn't a little intimidated --"

"Must not have been doin' it right." Faith purposefully exaggerates the drawl. "Shoulda been a lot."

Willow's chuckle shows the witch remains undeterred. "I was just starting in myself on the whole feeling my oats thing."

Faith doesn't resist. "We headin' into pony play?"  
  
Willow looks nonchalantly around at everything but Faith. "Do you want to?"

Faith hopes her silent shout of joy isn't too loud for the witch's mental ears. But the more she tries to bring her thoughts under some measure of control, the more outlandish they become.

"What if I got chipped instead of Spike?" She grins at an increasingly flustered Willow. "Would you have kept me in your dorm room? All tied up?"

"Oh look! I think this is our stop." Willow points ahead, her delicate features once more aflame. "Thank you drive through. Get out come again..."

"Now aren't you glad I cut you off?" Faith leans over to whisper in one crimson, heated ear. "Don't want you fallin' asleep too early."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"A new record." The familiar appears duly impressed by this achievement. "You gonna go easy on 'em?"

"They have chosen." The magician's solemn intonation sends a lucent ripple through the air around him. For a moment each mote of dust glows fierce and bright, only to fade and flicker before falling away to ash.

"Wisely?" The familiar sends a knowing look at his master. "Or the other thing?"

"For better...and for worse."

The familiar's lip curls. "How long 'til my next sick day?"

The magician's eyes narrow. "You don't get sick."

"Believe me," the familiar mutters, turning away. "I'm catchin' on."

"Insolence!" While the bark is bad enough, the look on the magician's aging face is enough to inspire fear of an actual bite. "You think I won't command you to bury yourself in the tar pits?"

The familiar raises one shaggy, skeptical eyebrow.

"You think I need you to deal with those rabble?" The magician's roar drops once more to a quiet menace. "Go on. Have your bloody sick day."

The familiar's gape extends its jaw down to its navel, slapping shut with a look of befuddlement. "You're serious?"

"Until they depart, you are released from service, bound only to say nothing of myself -- or my works." The magician waves one weary hand. "Go. I'm sure you won't find it difficult to keep your distance from such a _loathsome_ individual."

"Geez," the familiar grumbles. "Don't take it personal."

"Away with you," the magician commands. "Do what you will. But do _not_ \--"

"I know." The familiar draws a heavy sigh. "Don't interfere."

 

 

* * *

 

 

The thing he loved most about nature?

"Honey, come quick! Isn't it _gorgeous_?"

How every living thing was equal. Not in life, perhaps.

"Oh, God!"

But in the only way that mattered.  
  
"What are you _doing_ \--"

 

 

* * *

  



	3. "Holiday" (Act 2)

  
_Special thanks to Deborah Jaffe_

<https://www.gettyimages.com/event/eliza-dushku-ym-march-1-1999-75196714>

_and as always, to Eliza_

 

 

 

The magician's scowl as he trudges down the trail shows little of his usual appreciation for the wonders that surround him. The temporary satisfaction at giving vent to impetuous annoyance has already fled, leaving sheer stubbornness the only thing that stands between his aging body and the grueling trials to come. Without the multitude of comforts and easements his familiar still provides, albeit grudgingly, it will be more difficult than ever to properly attend to more pressing matters. Although the absence of smartarse remarks should prove no small advantage.

Already he feels more at ease. He slows his pace further, smiling at the sight of a passing butterfly.

The one will destroy himself.

The two may require more.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"I don't get it." Willow surveys the clearing with a puzzled frown. A small adobe fountain sits in the center, its simple shape resembling a flower. On the other side another path leads into the forest, angling downhill and disappearing from sight.

Faith gives her the funny-peculiar look. "What's to get?"  
  
"We came from the north." Willow lifts her sunglasses, squinting at the map on the back of her brochure. "We should be able to see at least one of the cabins from here."

"I say we take the first one we find." Faith drops their luggage with a thud and heads for the fountain. "Squatter's rights."

"There's bottles in my --"

The Slayer plunges her head underwater, a loud stream of satisfied bubbles rising to the surface.

"Bag," Willow finishes with a wry half-smile.

Returning her attention to the brochure, however, only makes her head spin. If it weren't for all that fresh coconut water, she might have thought she was succumbing to heat exhaustion. The printed color reproduction is offset by its migraine-inducing level of detail, the original laid out in fine woodcut.

"Fwah!" Faith stands tall as she flings her head back. Willow closes her eyes, disappointed when more of the impromptu shower doesn't land on her.

"I suppose it's too late to say don't drink the water?"

"Hell with it," Faith declares. "I'm goin' in."

"Um." Willow opens her eyes to the sight of Faith pulling her shirt over her head, kicking off her boots. "There's a swimsuit, and a very nice two piece I might add, in the --"

With ruthless speed and efficiency, Faith shucks jeans and underwear at once, clambering over the lip of the fountain and disappearing from view. Willow can't help another smile as water slops over the edge.

"Bag."

Faith surfaces with another flourish of bubbles, leaning back with a contented sigh.

"Maybe you were right." The Slayer closes her eyes, a tiny grin curling her lips. "Maybe I'm finally starting to relax."

"Yes, you're...very. Comfortable." Willow looks behind her. The hedge maze remains empty as far as the eye can see, which isn't very.

"Don't tell my fan club." Faith gives a provocative stretch. "But it feels kinda good to be out of all that denim and leather."

"Shall I fetch Madame a gingham frock?" Willow's admiration of the view is interrupted by a different mental image, that of a disgruntled Slayer wearing their Amish friend Katie's best Sunday dress. A giggle escapes.

Faith looks up with a frown. "Care to share?"

"Well, we -- didn't bring any frocks. Gingham or otherwise." Willow kneels and rummages through their bags. "Oh, this looks nice."

"Oh, you wanna play Barbie doll?" Faith sounds amused rather than put off. "Like you did with Ken?"

"I never -- oh, Kennedy?" A deeper blush runs through her blood like fire at the memory of that post-Sunnydale shopping trip. Not to mention after.

"You know, she admitted to having _Gone With the Wind_ fantasies?" Willow smiles in fond recollection. "It never would have worked out."

"Well, you got me." Faith rises and steps out of the fountain, placing both hands on her hips as water cascades down her body. "Dress me up."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Something isn't right.

He frowns, considering his creation from a different angle. The pallid complexion is unavoidable at this point. Still, he'd hoped it would stay fresh a little longer.

More unfortunate from his perspective is the regrettable diversion from schedule. But he had followed his instincts too long to mistrust them. The brunette had been perfectly normal, both on the boat and after they had docked. And yet to a thing like himself, the threat she represents is unquestionable, for now still unknown.  
  
At least his creation won't be attracting undue attention. Now that the noises have stopped.

Everything will work out. The dyke and her plaything will be dealt with, and his work will continue. They will add to its glory. And then the rest.

One piece at a time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"I say we just leave all this right here." Faith is bent over, running her fingers through drying hair. She straightens, giving Willow an expectant look.

"Wow," Willow manages. "And I mean every word of that."

"Guess I don't need a thousand-dollar dress to start your broomstick." Faith isn't blushing, but seems more pleased than her subtle smile would indicate. "Didn't you pick these up at the thrift store?"

"Sure did." Willow can feel her pulse quicken as she takes in the Slayer's loose-fitting white drawstring pants, the black spaghetti string top. "Same place I got my dress."

"Which is back in New York," Faith points out. "Along with _my_ dress. Which your grandma bought me, and which cost a lot more?"

"I could -- no, you said you didn't want to. I remember. Moving on." Willow looks at the heap of luggage around the fountain. "I don't know..."

"Who's gonna steal it?" Faith spreads her hands, seeming genuinely puzzled. For a moment she looks like a fresh-faced college girl, nothing at all like a Slayer. "Where are they gonna go?"

Willow purses her lips. "I suppose they could have a hidden submarine."

"And I know when you're just trying to humor me."

At least Faith's own humor is bearing up well. Usually by this point, Willow's had to apologize at least twice.

"Not a lot of options." Willow indicates the sole path leading out of the clearing. "But if we don't see any buildings, I think we should turn back. See if we can find a side exit --"

"Or," Faith drawls, "we could see what there is to see."

Willow smiles despite herself. "Who are you, and what have you done with Faith?"

"Hey, if you wanna hold my hand, just say so."

"Oh! I would, but --" Willow fumbles in her pocket before locating the phone. "Let me know if you see any animals. Other than birds. So I can get some pictures?"

"Humans are animals." Faith's observation is too casual not to be its polar opposite.

"You want me to take _your_ picture?" Willow blinks and shakes her head. "No, really. What have you done with Faith?"

"Want ain't exactly the word." Faith ducks a huge frond, holding it up to let Willow pass under. "Take...have. Not so --"

"Ambiguous?"

Faith risks a passing glance, and Willow finds herself thinking again how odd it is seeing her in anything but the standard bad girl uniform. _Clothes make the woman._

"Maybe."

The jungle is thinning, their path descending at a steeper angle. Now that her ears are alert for it, Willow can sense the hum of unseen life all around. Still, there's no visible sign of it.

"Not to be lookin' up a dead horse," Faith interjects. "But what's the deal with this place?"

"Meaning?"

"Serve your own drinks? Pass the savings on to you? Rock on." Faith steps over an upthrust tree root, nimble as a mountain goat. "But what's with the survivor schtick? You can't find your cabin, you get to camp out under the stars?"

"It's not like we're paying." Willow is finding it hard to formulate an argument. The Slayer's hair is almost dry, tousled and wind-blown, her atypical and exquisite bare feet lending further unaccustomed softness to her appearance.

"We're payin' with everything else we _could_ be doing." Still, Faith doesn't sound too stressed about it.

"I guess you really were listening that time." Willow succumbs to the mote of concern. " _Is_ there something you'd rather be doing?"

"Now how'm I supposed to answer that?" The Slayer's irritation is minimal, clearly humorous. "Damned if I do, damned --"

Both women come to a stop as they emerge from the jungle. The beach is empty, the blue of the ocean framed by sand and sky, stretching out before them in a swath of picturesque perfection.

"Okay -- this must be the west side." Willow consults her map. "The other was north. No. Wait..."

Faith produces a _pssh-click_ of impatience. Before Willow can protest, the Slayer breaks in to a slow trot downhill, jogging across the sand to the water's edge.

"Come on, Rosenberg!" The faint shout reaches Willow's ears on the breeze as Faith turns and throws out both arms, her face to the sky. "What are you waitin' for?"

"My brain to make sense of it all," Willow mutters, bending to remove her sandals. "Coming, honey!"

"Nice trick." Faith wears a distinctly wicked grin as the witch approaches. "Those kegels are really doin' the job, huh?"

Willow doesn't respond, except to smile right back as she stands there drinking in the sights.

"Cat got your tongue?" Faith is intently studying her right back. Willow finds it disconcerting in the sense of being simultaneously over and underdressed. Also undressed by another person's eyes.

"Can't say I blame ya." Faith shrugs, turning to face the ocean. "Maybe I'm like Medusa. One look and --"

_snap_

"Hey!" Faith completes her rotation, momentary surprise replaced by amused tolerance.

"Sorry." Willow examines the results on her viewfinder. "Actually -- no. No, I'm not. And you are going to love this as much as I do."

"Can I get that in writing?"

"It's hard enough getting any pictures of you." Willow takes another shot before the Slayer can raise an objection. "I only have those two of Tara that made it out of Sunnydale. And none of Oz."

"He ain't on B's payroll," Faith points out. "Give him a call, I promise not to get snippy."

"I'm just saying," Willow continues. "The least you could do is smile more."

Faith rolls her eyes. "Now you got me all self conscious."

Willow thinks this sounds like so much hyperbole. She's hardly ever seen her girlfriend this much at ease. As a result, she almost misses her opportunity.

"Man," Faith chuckles. "You should see your face --"

_snap_

"And through the magic of technology, we'll be able to see yours." Willow holds up one finger. "Again, please?"

"Demanding hussy, aren'tcha?" For a moment Faith manages a stern demeanor, before her face cracks open in the biggest smile yet. "You know this is gonna completely destroy my rep."

"You sound very concerned." Willow reviews the growing album with no small pride. "Hey, you want to put your hair up?"

"You want me to?" Faith rolls her eyes and shrugs, a fleeting discomfiture in her eyes. "Just say the word."

Willow pitches her voice a little lower. Soothing tones. "We probably left all that stuff in the bags."

Faith pulls something from her pocket.

"Or not," Willow admits. "Want me to --"

With a meaningful eyebrow, the Slayer quickly pins her hair up in a trio of tight-fitting pigtails that border on perky. Her expression has an air of challenge, as if silently daring Willow to say something snarky.

"Well." Willow takes a moment to admire the results. "I was hoping for another smile."

"Already made quota for the day." Faith doesn't sound angry or even irritated as she turns away, going into a series of stretches.

"Or you could sit down," Willow offers. "Whatever's comfortable."

"Still trying to turn me into a Zen master?" Faith lowers herself to the sand, sitting crosslegged. "Careful what you wish for."

"I just think a little meditation every once in a while might conceivably help you feel better." Willow adjusts her hat, shielding her eyes from the sun. "If you gave it an honest try."

"Wait. I got it." Faith shuts her eyes and turns up her palms. " _OMM..._ "

"I'm afraid to guess." Regardless, Willow is pretty sure of the answer.

A hint of smug enters the Slayer's tone. "It's you."

Got it in one. "I do not look like that."

"Sometimes."

"I think that's enough mockery of the girlfriend for now," Willow declares. "Give me something I can work with here."

"What?" Faith's scowl appears uncharacteristically out of place. "My natural beauty ain't enough?"

Willow grins. "I guess I'm just not used to you wearing makeup."

"Geez," Faith grumbles. "Not like I laid it on with a trowel --"

"Shush, okay? You look great and you know it. We can wash it off later. Before I kiss you."

"There's kissing?" Faith brightens at the prospect.

"Much later," Willow amends. "Hold it...oh, that was great."

"Some seducer I am." A sardonic chuckle issues from Faith's throat.

"Oh, I'm way ahead of you." Willow takes a moment between shots to admire the Slayer's still-unbroken yoga stance. "You've more than accomplished that already. But I'm a woman on a mission."

"Serious about your fun time?"

"Exactly. I want my tacky tourist shirt. And my fruity girl drinks, and long walks, and swimming in the moonlight." Willow holds her phone up for emphasis. "And a whole mess of pictures to help remember it all."

"Skinny dipping?" Faith's words belie the casual inquiry.

"I think not," Willow primly replies. "Mom always said it was bad enough getting hit by a bus without having clean underwear on."

" _Commando_ ," Faith coughs, before brightening. "If you get a cramp, I can do my Slayerly duty. Be all dashing to the rescue."

"You know CPR?"

Faith's smile doesn't waver. "Prison?"

"Right." Willow coughs, distracted. "That reminds me. How about a workout?"

Faith nods in approval. "That's what I've been saying."

"I meant a real one?"

"Me too." Faith gives a miniscule eyebrow wiggle.

"All right now." Willow gestures, her cheeks once more betraying her inner flameage. "Just some warmups. Like you're about to destroy a poor innocent punching bag."

"Fine," Faith says, with an indulgent eye roll. "Lemme loosen up."

"Shouldn't I be saying that?" Willow offers a devilish grin.

"Tease." Faith pauses in her stretching. "Hey -- quit movin' back."

"I'm using manual focus," Willow explains. "I have to readjust."

"Oh." Faith looks slightly disappointed. "Thought I was distracting you with my unbearable hotness of being."

Willow nods. "That too."

"Oh yeah?"

"Oh, yeah." Willow snaps off a quick series of shots in succession. "Work it, baby. Female gaze me."

Faith responds with a bigger grin, and an outstretched fist that blurs into the foreground.

"Ooh." Willow snickers at the contrast between beauty and bone-crunching. "Mama say knock you out."

"You're sure these are all for you?" Faith inquires. "Not makin' a little Maxim cash on the side?"

"All for me," Willow assures her. "You're the sexiest for miles around."

"And the baddest." Faith raises one leg and pivots in the sand, freezing midkick. "Hi- _ya_!"

Willow feigns confusion. "Is that Jackie Chan or Hong Kong Phooey?"

"You do remember I can arm wrestle you with my pinky?" Faith doesn't show the slightest strain holding the pose. "Unless you're gonna cheat and use magic."

"Yes, dear." Willow soothes. "Now why don't you show me those big, impressive muskles?"

"Like this?" Faith drops her leg, striking a classic bodybuilder's display of her modest biceps.

"Ah, yes. Disgusting." Willow clucks her tongue. "This will be perfect for our public service announcement on the dangers of steroid abuse."

"And this is me, preparing to give you the double bird --"

_snap_

"Hey!"

"What?" Willow inquires, the picture of innocence.

"My eyes were practically shut. Like I'm turnin' Japanese."

Willow raises an eyebrow. "You do know what that means?"

"Not that there's anything wrong with that." Faith is beginning to look impatient. "This fantasy of yours wouldn't involve lunch any time soon?"

"God," Willow marvels. "Where do you put it all?"

"Slayer metabolism." Faith's smugness is guilt-free.

"Darn." Willow snaps her fingers instead of the camera with a mock look of disappointment. "I guess fattening you for my oven is out of the question."

Faith chuckles. "Thought you were all about fighting the stereotypes."

"Even a hardline culture warrior can't deny the enduring charm of the classics." Willow looks over the viewfinder, momentarily serious. "Thank you."

"For what?" Faith abruptly looks to be verging on another good fidget.

"These look really good."

Willow isn't sure if she sees an actual blush. But the exuberant energy is undeniable as Faith releases her hair from bondage, then turns and cartwheels down the length of the beach, her wordless warrior's cry sending gulls to soar and scatter.

Now if they can just find that cabin.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was supposed to be perfect.

Now she's running for her life.

Probably, anyway. It seems like a safe assumption. Because nothing is safe. Not after what she's seen, and what a sight for sore eyes --

She leans against a tree, gorge rising to no avail. Nothing more to bring up. Nowhere to go but down.

Oh sweet Jesus. Her _eyes_.

 _Flayed flesh laid open more naked than nude, rearranged like some monstrous, inhuman puzzle._ She'd seen it all, and the architect as well.

And he had seen her.

Who would doubt he was hunting her even now? That when he found her she would die in the same unspeakable fashion, or worse?

Huddled in the rocky crevice, surrounded by the splash and spray of waves, she opens her phone with trembling fingers. Tears fill her eyes at the hiss of dead air, and she nearly hurls the useless gadget into the sea.

She clutches it to her chest, struggling for breath. Focusing on staying alive. Just one more minute.

She has to find someone. Has to find the others; find someone who can help. Before

( _if_ )

the boat comes back.

Or they're all dead.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Willow considers as they make their way back up the beach. Not that she's complaining, only trying to work out just how much it really matters. Isn't she the one always saying you can be whatever you want? That we are what we pretend to be?

True, precisely what Faith is may remain forever beyond definition. But ever since their extremely imprecise sharing of souls, Willow has at least found the other woman more comprehensible than before. Only each passing day has seen those borrowed memories fade to no more than a fever dream, where any deliberate attempt to recall the details seems an overt invasion of what privacy they've managed to carve out between them. And yet the last she can remember Faith feeling this level of optimism -- this playful mischief, without a hint of malevolence -- was when the dark Slayer first came to a precious backwater called Sunnydale. Only to fall head over heels in loving hate, with one girl in all the world.

No other trails are apparent off of the beach. Their luggage still sits by the fountain, untouched.

Willow indicates the opening of the hedge maze. "Once more into the breach?"

"Looks like." Faith frowns. "Then again -- from this side, it's an entrance, not an exit."

"Good point." Willow nods, raising her hand. "Right hand, leftward ho."

Amazingly, Faith doesn't take the bait.

It's early in the day and hardly any shadow, but as they proceed inward Willow finds herself wondering if the maze looks different. Obviously they're in unexplored territory, yet even to someone of her limited botanical experience, the foliage appears to have undergone a series of changes so subtle she feels driven more crazy just thinking about it. But her internal alarms are quiescent; not a trace of spellwork to be seen by any of her senses. Only the deep magick of this place itself, immense and timeless.

She looks over at Faith, eager for distraction. "Penny lane for your thoughts?"

Not for the first time, the Slayer doesn't immediately respond. Willow envisions a Terminator-style HUD, considering and rejecting possible replies.

"Well, I can tell you mine," Willow continues without rancor. The witch squints at the walls of green surrounding them, a note of resigned irritation creeping into her voice. "I _really_ need glasses."

"Hot." Faith sounds like she can see the possibilities. "Wire rims? Maybe --"

Something catches in the Slayer's voice.

"What?" Willow doesn't fret. Mostly she's focused on keeping her hand on the wall, making sure no geas is being invoked that might lead them astray. Besides, this sort of hiccup happens all the time in their conversations. To call attention to it usually only exacerbates things.

"Tinted." Faith keeps walking, sounding like whatever normal is. "Tinted lenses. Maybe...light rose."

Willow smiles. "That sounds nice."

Faith murmurs some wordless reply. Willow decides to risk it.

"You okay?"

"Yeah." Faith doesn't seem to be forcing the calm. "Just...thinking about the past."

"The past is prologue." Willow's musing contains a wistful note.

Faith seems to relax like she's dodged another bullet. Neo, Willow thinks, has got nothing on her. It makes it easier to throw caution not just to the wind, but screaming under the wheels as an evil notion occurs.

"What if we hooked up? Back then?"

"Huh?" The casual nature of the question has Faith's defenses thrown for a loop. Unintentional, but possibly helpful.

"When you first came to Sunnydale." Willow can feel the other woman tensing beside her in some infinitesimal manner. "What if you and I had...gotten together?"

Faith's chuckle seems more a weak attempt at deflection. "What brought that on?"

"Uh..." Willow does her best not to _duh_. "Thinking about the past?"

"Right." Apparently, this is firm enough ground for Faith to reject the idea out of hand. "Never saw the point in what-ifs."

"You're no fun." Willow's playful grousing doesn't hide her disappointment, however small. "What was that about you being chipped instead of Spike?"

"Seriously." Faith isn't buying it. "That stuff's for the comics."

Willow remains ever hopeful without being pushy. "Not even to humor me?"

"Like I told you," the Slayer replies, with brutal finality. "Wouldn't have worked out."

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Boston_

_December 1997_

 

"Told you."

Faith's voice drips with scorn as she surveys the rickety table. The others appear equally unimpressed with the collective haul, if less inclined to voice an opinion. Already she's keeping a closer eye on their hands and eyes, along with every square inch of this crummy room in a crummy abandoned building in the crummiest part of town.

"Looks to me like it worked just fine." Cin has a good inch and at least twenty pounds on her, most of it muscle. Still not too worried, but the way their self-appointed leader stands there unmoving has already caused Faith to shift her own stance.

"Guess that depends on your definition." Faith looks around, undisguised sarcasm on full display. "'Cause my first thought ain't how we're gonna unload this. More like who we gotta pay to take it off our hands."

"No accounting for taste." Cin remains unflapped. "Next time, you take the gospel section. That's got some resale."

"Word," Felice chimes in. A lanky dishwater blonde with a taste for too much mascara, the younger girl typically serves as distraction on these outings. "My grandma's way into that. And what about all that glassware Deb got?"

From under clipped bangs, the most junior member of the group gives her mentor a timid smile.

"Yeah," Faith scoffs. "Good luck hagglin' with the hippies. Lemme know how that works out."

"We can do better." Cin's on the move, coming round the table all casual. "Next time."  
  
"How many more next times you figure we can pull before we start gettin' squeezed?" Faith notes that the doorway is clear, calculating whether to risk grabbing anything if she has to make a run for it. "Cause that security guard totally scoped your ass."

"You oughtta know." Cin volleys, returning fire. "You been starin' at it long enough."

"I told you!" Deb casts a fearful glance about the room. "I told you they saw us!"

"They didn't see crap." Cin appears genuinely unconcerned. "And if they did, they didn't do jack. So what?"

"So the next time we go sticky finger," Faith drawls, hand on one hip. "Say we get lucky. Maybe even -- we get better. Score big time, fill every pawn shop from here to the Bullfinch."

Felice grins, no doubt at the prospect of a big score. Faith hates to burst that bubble. Still, better to get it over with.

"You think old Whitey's boys are sittin' around waiting for him to show up?" Faith eyes each of them in turn. "Nah, they're out there shakin' 'em down. These guys can _smell_ money, and we get more than a Kraft dinner between us? You can bet your ass they'll come sniffin' around for a cut."

"Please." Cin nevertheless looks shaken, like she hadn't considered this possibility. Big surprise. "You believe everything you see on TV?"

"More than I believe that guard let us slide 'cause he liked your ass."

Deb and Felice emit simultaneous giggles, earning a dark glare from Cin that shuts them both up.

"You think you can run this crew better?" Cin lets the words hang in the air between them, trying to drill right through her challenger with a stare of utter contempt.

"Some crew," Faith taunts, openly mocking. Leave no bridge unburned, that's her motto.

"You're right." Cin's left hand is in her back pocket, that side facing away from Faith. "I've been thinking."

Faith smirks. "Thought I smelled something burning."

"We can do a lot better." Cin is almost within arm's reach. "We just need to...trim some of the fat."

"Didn't know you were into cutting."

"Jesus, Cin --" Felice has gone paler than usual, while Deb looks ready to pass out.

"That's right." The blade twitches in Faith's direction. Cin's eyes are burning coals behind the shiny tip. "This is a come to Jesus moment. And you're not invited."

"Looks like I crashed the party." Faith bares her teeth in a feral grin. She can sense rather than see the others slowly retreating; giving her and her opponent plenty of space. Shit got real, faster than she would have given odds. Too late to back down.

Time to throw down.

"Faith Lehane?"

Her first impression, in three words? _Mary fucking Poppins_. Not that Julie Andrews wore glasses. Or sported shoulder length bobbed reddish hair, even after being colorized. Or would have been caught dead in a practical grey flannel pants suit, instead of a proper foofy dress that swept the sidewalk clean with every step. Instead it's the perfectly undisturbed poise despite the slight build, the sharp-eyed, no-nonsense gaze behind those black wire rims -- Armani or some shit -- that tells Faith in no uncertain terms there's more to this woman than meets the eye.

Nonetheless, her response is automatic. "No one here by that name."

The woman raises one elegant brow. "Which one?"

"Piss off." Apparently, Cin is unimpressed. "No -- wait."

The woman, who hasn't moved a muscle, regards the knife now pointing at her with a look of distaste or indifference. "Yes?"

"Leave your cash on the way out." Cin motions impatiently with the tip of the blade. "Credit cards. Jewelry -- whatever."

The woman's lips give the faintest twitch. "Shall I disrobe?"  
  
"Great." Cin rolls her eyes. "You two'll be perfect for each other."

"Mental as this chick sounds, maybe she oughtta hook up with your crew." Faith offers the newcomer a shrug. Least she can do. "No offense."

The stranger returns a nod. "Little taken."

"Maybe she's a cop." This comes from Felice, practically vibrating clean off the floor in an effort to keep from dancing from one foot to the other. Deb is likewise frozen, observing the unfolding events with a pure indecision bordering on terror.

"Hardly." The stranger remains motionless. Faith decides her accent is like Masterpiece Theater meets Boston Brahmin. Or, more likely, screws.

"My business is with Miss Lehane," the woman continues. "So if it's all the same to you, we'll be taking our leave."  
  
Cin's gaze darts rapidly to Faith and back. "And what if it's not?"

"Snot --" Deb claps one hand over her mouth, too late to stop the squeak that escapes from between tightly clamped fingers.

"Then we'll be leaving." The stranger's voice hardens. "Regardless."

"Not with that ring. So keep your mouth shut." Cin takes two steps forward, looming over her victim. "And I'll let you keep the finger."

Faith might have considered helping out. Well, _acting_. Normally she's all over that shit; doing for its own sake, the sooner the better and to hell with the consequences. Maybe it's curiousity, wondering which way the chips will fall; maybe just waiting for the right moment that might never come. Except some not so small part of her wants to see this infuriatingly groomed interloper ground into a paste, and not merely as an entertaining distraction. With a thousand greivances looming large in her memories, any organ of authority, however minor, will suffice for an acceptable scapegoat.

Then there's a shout that isn't Cin, and the knife clatters to the floor.

"Shit!" Felice yells. The rest had been ready to move -- Faith had seen that -- but the sight of their self-appointed leader on her knees, gasping and clutching one wrist, has induced fresh paralysis in both her followers. Deb's eyes are fixed on Cin's right hand that hangs at a wrong angle, her own mouth likewise ajar.

"That's one bone." The woman kicks the knife into the corner. "You have hundreds more."

Deb finds her voice. "Bad _ass_."

Faith spares a glance for the fallen figure. Cin is on her knees, hatred blazing in her eyes, clearly out of commission. Even with one good arm remaining, her adversary's demoralization is complete.

"I'll take that." Faith grabs the solitary lighter from the table, noting Felice's outraged glare as she slips it into her jacket. "Want I can walk ya out?"

"Delighted." The stranger offers a gracious little bow. Faith ignores the sudden flush of vague inadequacy, focused on the moment.

"You better run, Lehane." Cin continues to glare, a lump on the floor.

"This is my town, _Cinnamon._ You know where to find me." Faith strides past her without looking before turning in the doorway, returning the stare in full measure. "I ain't goin' nowhere."

The older woman doesn't say a word as they exit the building. Faith is wondering whether to ditch the bitch at the corner when the stranger stops and turns, surveying her with narrowed eyes from head to toe like she's sizing up a side of beef.

"What are you lookin' at?" Her attempted belligerence comes off more petulant.

"You." The reply is clipped and precise, the accent almost military. "And not for the first time."

Outrage and confusion battle it out as Faith resists the urge to bolt. "You been spyin' on me?"

"You do realize you drop your left?"

"Huh?" She's not sure if confusion is winning, or outrage.  
  
"That could be fatal." The woman shakes her head. "And your groundwork -- _tch_. Very sloppy."

"Who the hell are you?" Faith stares at the stranger, feeling utterly lost at sea. "You sure you're not a cop?"

"In time, you will wish that I were." The woman looks up and down the deserted street, fixing Faith with a hard stare that's all business. "My name is Diana Dormer."

Faith frowns. "And?"

Diana's cool remains unruffled.

"And you and I need to talk."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Now that's a sunset." The familiar wheezes a contented sigh as he leans back on the hillside, scaly hands behind his scabby head. Since his release from bondage he hadn't given the magician a second thought, or a first. He'd been too busy adapting to his unaccustomed freedom. Trying to plan a day is harder than it looks. How the humans do it, he hasn't a clue.

"Not that I'm a coinyasewer," he continues. "Put me in charge, damn thing'd probably come up fuschia. In the south, no less."

His affable monologue remains unbroken by the sole and scraggly blossom growing out of the mountain beside him.

"Feel free to chime in." The familiar eyes the flower with a raised eyebrow. "Course if you did, it'd just be the boss talkin' through ya."

Crimson petals dance in the breeze.  
  
"So you think it counts?" The wide-lipped frown is comical in its sheer repulsiveness. "'Say nothing of me or my works' -- does that mean, at all? To anyone?"

Down on the beach below, a speck of blackness moves.

"To any conscious being? Any _sentient_ being?" The deepening frown threatens to bisect the familiar's misshapen skull. "I mean, he didn't make this _place_ , am I right? Not the island, not the caves, not the --"

The speck catches his eye. As he watches, it begins to stumble southward.

"Tar pits." This time, the familiar's sigh is one of decided discontent. "So whaddya think counts as _interfering_?"

As expected, the flower remains silent.  


 

* * *

 

 

She can't remember when she last heard another voice. And the last sign of life

( _death_ )

is something she's been doing her damndest to forget. So a little panic is understandable.

"You don't want to go that way."

She whirls about, nearly toppling over in the sand. The rock in her hand is the size of a softball, the nerves in her fingers on fire from holding on for dear life.

"And you don't need to do that."

"Says you." Her voice is a cracked and beaten thing, pathetic in comparison. "Who are you?"

A mellifluous sigh drifts upon the breeze, everywhere and nowhere. "Probably not who you think."

She swallows, turning in place. Her feet feel almost as tenderized, near bleeding since she lost both sandals. Aside from herself, the beach appears deserted, although the lengthening shadows make it harder to see.

She risks another question. "Where are you?"

"Where do you want me to be?" A pause, followed by a raspy chuckle. "That's a joke."

"Is it?"

"I think it's about a lawyer. Or an engineer. Anyway, like I was saying -- 'scuse me." A muffled cough, and the sound of spit. "You don't wanna go that way."

She can't stop herself from continuing the insanity of looking around. Still nobody there, and daylight is fading fast.

"Says the disembodied voice I should be trusting why exactly?"

"I don't really have a name." The voice sounds as though this is a matter for some regret.

"Really." Even if it means her life, she can't quite eliminate the sarcasm in her reply.

"If I did, I'd give it to you."

"How thoughtful." The apology doesn't reassure. Her feet shift in the sand, fingers clutching tighter around her improvised weapon.

"You can tell me yours, if you want." The voice is matter-of-fact, with no hint of rancor. "I got no power over names."

"Kelly." It's out before she can think of a lie.

"Well, Kelly -- I was quite the dapper dasher in my day." Another hawk and spit. "Not so much to look at, now."

Kelly frowns. "Is that why you don't want me to see you?"

"The last human I showed myself to tried to shoot me."

"Human?" Kelly thinks it odd this isn't resulting in any further freakout. Maybe she's hit her limit. "What are you, like -- an alien?"

"And when he ran out of bullets, he threw himself off a cliff."

"Wow." Kelly digests this for a moment. "You must be pretty ugly."

The voice sounds puzzled. "Is that an oxymoron?"

Kelly laughs despite herself. The sun rests on the edge of the horizon, the sky streaked with red and gold.

"Which way should I go?"

The voice turns dead serious. "Not that way."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Willow remains bound and determined -- well, determined -- to enjoy her vacation. Still, it's been harder than usual to regain the momentum since their conversation got derailed. This is made more difficult by Faith, currently lost in a flood of memory the witch is reluctant to disturb and even less willing to intrude upon; riding a flood of associations, struggling to maneuver among the rapids and rocks. The constant underlying buzz of her girlfriend's thought seems louder than ever for their comparative isolation, as well as Willow's inability to heed her own advice. _Try not to think of an elephant..._

She's also waiting for the right moment to say something, while trying not to listen too closely to know when that moment is. Obviously, this will drive even the most disciplined meditaty mind somewhat bonkers. Particularly in the context of an intimate relationship --

"How would you feel about having dinner with some of the other guests?" Willow keeps her hand on the wall, both eyes on the path. "I mean, assuming we run into anyone besides the Bickersons."

"You really do come outta nowhere." Faith's bemusement turns to mock perplexity. "What makes you think I want to see anyone else? Not like we're on vacation or something."

"Just asking." Willow tries not to sound overly conciliatory. "You know you don't have to be social to make me happy."

"If I'm not making you happy, what's the point?"

"That's not what I meant." Willow avoids any acknowledgement on her part of that subtle note of irritation she'd been hoping to avoid.

"I'm just saying," Faith continues. "It's like you come in every time expecting me to shut you down."

"Maybe I feel the same," Willow counters, before she can stop herself.

"And maybe once in a while, I might surprise you." When Faith speaks again, her voice is more subdued. "Maybe I get tired of bein' the killjoy."

Willow hesitates. "You could...try not killing joy?"

She's actually expecting a more vehement response. Instead, Faith just snorts in that way that signifies the argument is over. If they both decide it is.

Casting about for something suitably neutral, she finds herself surprised when the wall ends, leaving her hand briefly flailing. Both women come to a halt, taking in the elaborate wrought iron arch and clearing beyond, the quaint little cottage oozing with rustic charm.

"Well, whaddya know?" Willow turns with a grin, only to find her gladness unexpectedly challenged.

"Whaddya know," Faith echoes. The Slayer shakes her head with a knowing, cynical smile. "Isn't _this_ just too convenient."

"It's not made of gingerbread," Willow notes. "What more do you want?"

"At least one suitcase would be nice." Faith is clearly reigning in the snark. "Since I spent half the day haulin' 'em all over this rock."

"Your wish is my command. As long as you don't require a nose wiggle." Willow closes her eyes, opening them to a red haze that instantly dissipates.

"What's up?" Faith frowns at the empty spot on the ground in front of them. "This place gettin' to ya?"

"I just did it the slow way," Willow says. "A little time and space warp, a little follow the leader -- all our stuff should catch up to us in a few hours."

"Unless it ends up in the ocean." The words are blunted by the Slayer's friendly bantering tone. Faith considers the cottage, suspicion becoming consideration. "Think the galley's got any grub?"

"I don't know." Willow strives for casual. "I don't think I'm hungry."

Faith looks over, and Willow clarifies.

"For food."

A huge grin splits the Slayer's face wide open.

"Why didn't ya say so?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

The hunger is unbearable.

It's always been this way, for as long as he can remember. The work is the only thing that will assuage his agony. Make him whole again.

Except his fellow predator had gone to ground. Vanished from the face of the earth, or so it seemed, along with her girltoy. Left him to look the bumbling fool, while his masterpiece inevitably succumbed to the way of all flesh.

The only remaining option was to track the one who had spotted him earlier. But even if he'd made up for lost time with a vengeance, covered an amazing amount of ground since losing his preferred prey, this one is just too soft. Even if he left her to her fate, she'll be lucky to survive the night.

He frowns, peering from his cover within the bushes. The soft one is talking to herself. Always a sign of clear faculties.

As he watches, she turns and stumbles back up the beach, the way she came.

Returning to him.

"Oh, child..."

A vortex of living night splits open the space beside him; followed by another, and another. All unseen by him.

He only has eyes for her.

"Let's make some magic."

 

 

* * *

  



	4. "Holiday" (Act 3)

> _Are you someone else tonight?_

 

 

It's starting.

He can feel it.

The first signs are always obvious when the changes begin; when the few signs of native life go to ground, fleeing instinctively from the fallout to come. By chance or some unknown design, they had forever been drawn here whose lives and souls demanded such extravagance; their better natures cast aside, to be molded and forged anew. So it had been long before he set foot on this bit of earth, and so it should forever be, in eternal defiance of any and all Powers who would oppose it.

His traitorous tongue twitches inside his mouth, yearning to give voice to these thoughts and more. Not for the first time, the magician curses whatever impetuous impulse led him to release his normally captive audience from its state of bondage. Even temporarily, under such a restrictive geas, who knew what sort of havoc the simple creature might wreak? Didn't he have enough to worry about with the change at hand? With strangers running rampant in his home?

_Talk to one of them?_ His lip curls from sneer to scoff. The sort of ridiculous notion his servant would come up with. As if that had not been the entire reason for his insolent, misguided creation. To fill the void of companionship.

As if anything could fill the void in his heart, after what had happened. After she had betrayed him.

And he allowed her to die.

_And yet you remain._ More of the tiny tears are forming in the fabric of what passes for reality. They dance about him in a darkening swirl, mosquitos the size of hummingbirds. _Where it happened._

The magician bites his lip. How could they understand? The beauty he was privileged to witness only served to remind him of his crime. And of his loss.

_Atonement._

While he lived, there would be none.

He stretches out on the obsidian slab, carefully arranging his robes about his aged and aching body with all the dignity he can muster. The staff at his side emits a feeble glow reflected in the smooth curve of green stone. This cramped and tiny cave, far below the surface of the island, has been a blessing and a sanctuary inviolate since the earliest days. And while his familiar's blandishments might have drawn more visitors since the accursed Internet, things were still as they had always been. Any who survived the turbulence their passions brought forth from the raw substance of the land were only the stronger for it. The blackness had always been the price that was paid, however impermanent.

But the voids are growing. In number, and in power.

And what's worse?

He no longer cares.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Faith couldn't care less about the lack of food in the cupboards. The biggest reason to keep quiet and let Willow explore their latest home away from home is the amount of time it should hopefully save later on. She's still finding the patience required for persuasion rather than brute force. Willow is also being overly coy; not to the point of annoyance but enough that Faith realizes it's deliberate, something she'll be expected to indulge right back before reaching any kind of payoff. Not like she's in that much of a hurry.

Two can play that game.

She still can't believe it took her this long to notice Will's resemblance to her former Watcher. Then again, she'd only known Diana something over six months before the older woman had been reduced to so much blood and guts in front of her. And while even at the time, Faith had seen people die -- slow in the hospital, fast on the street -- that moment had been a life changer in so many ways, not to mention one of the last things she wants to think about no matter how much meditational goodness she manages to squeeze out of her system. She just never thought about it consciously until now, and Willow's no dead ringer but it's close enough to be uncanny. Put her in high heels and tweed; horn rims, hair in a bun and the resulting quick, tight flush of nostalgia actually surprises Faith with its vehemence. If she can work up the guts to ask for a British accent --

"Nothing." Willow shuts the last of the cupboard doors, catching Faith in mid-stare. "What? Am I all spider webby?"

"You're fine." Faith smiles, unsure if it feels right. "Why don't we check out the upstairs?"

"There's an upstairs?"

Faith indicates the narrow wooden staircase leading up.

"Huh."  
  
"What?"

"I could have sworn..." Willow frowns. "Never mind. Lead on."

"Half an upstairs, maybe." Faith takes in the fluffy pink decor with no small amount of skepticism. "Interior decorator drank too much Pepto."

"It's just like my old room!" Willow's excitement grows as she surveys the bookcases, neatly crammed to bursting, towering up to the ceiling. "I used to have that same copy of _The Dark Is Rising_! What are the odds?"

"Didn't you have an aquarium?" Faith is suddenly feeling oddly queasy.

Willow looks over, her smile disappearing before Faith can blink.

"For a while."

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Boston_

_May 1998_

 

"Too easy." Another hush puppy disappears down the hatch. "Caliban."

"Interesting." Diana's dress is as casual as it gets, with long slacks and a sweater appropriate for the cool evening. The older woman tucks away her plank of whitefish with neat, precise stabs of her fork, observing Faith in between bites. "Why?"

"How come the more _interesting_ something is, the more I gotta talk about it? I mean, you're the crazy one." Faith shakes her head, putting her annoyance into cracking open a crab leg. "No offense."

"A proper insult does not require a disclaimer." Diana pushes the ramikin over. They're seated at the open air marina, waiting for sunset. "You might be thankful I don't expect you to write a paper."

"That's gotta be worth a few dinners." Faith nabs a french fry, wracking her brain for inspiration. "Maybe I should sit in on one of your classes."

"I doubt my students are ready for you." Diana peers over her horn rims. "No offense."

Faith snorts. "You tell them about vampires?"

"Only the potential Slayers. Of which you, most assuredly, are one." The Watcher -- or so the Harvard professor titles herself when they're behind closed doors -- dabs her lips with one of the cheap Soviet-quality napkins favored by Boston's finest fish shanties. "Why Caliban?"

"Like I'm gonna identify with anyone else on that stupid island." Faith shrugs. "I dunno. He was born there, so it's like -- he belongs there."

"Go on."

"And that whole speech. About the place being full of noises." Faith fishes the lump of crab from its buttery grave. "I just -- I like the sound of it."

"Of what?"

Faith shrugs. "Wantin' to dream."

She's expecting more questions. Instead, Diana nods and lets her finish her meal in peace. Normally Faith would totally approve, but she can't help being suspicious even after all this time. No such thing as a free seafood platter.

Except that's exactly what Dormer's been offering, in between the assorted weird-ass odd jobs the chick refers to as "training". Food in her belly, a roof over her head, and all she has to do is yes-ma'am a bunch of bullshit about vampires? Compared to most of the crap she's had to swallow, this one's a piece of cake. Hard part's the English lit.

"We patrollin'?"

"Not tonight." Diana doesn't appear to notice the flippant tone. They've been out on these so-called patrols at least twice a week since they met. With zero supernatural threats sighted or slain, Faith isn't holding her breath.

"I thought a more specific exercise this evening," Diana continues. "If you're up to it."

"Oh, I'm up for it." Faith sort of regrets the words as they leave her lips. Still, too late now. "What kinda Remo Williams routine you got for me today?"

The training turns out to be the usual pain in the butt, just enough of a challenge that her native stubbornness kicks into top gear. Faith wonders again if the old gal isn't working some kind of roleplay kink: Book on her head, balanced just so, as she walks patterns on the wall to wall carpet in Dormer's well-appointed front parlor. Humouring the eccentric teacher.

She doesn't think about how she might react if Diana made a move on her. Mostly because she knows perfectly well it won't happen, and despite the supernatural craziness Faith has developed too much respect for the woman to try pushing back. It's just such a breath of fucking fresh air to have a grownup, however uncool, who doesn't try to control her through guilt and play the same old social worker games. Even if it mostly makes her feel like the hayseed she is just to be able to understand a fraction of what comes out of her Watcher's mouth, there's something in not being talked down to. Or as Diana enigmatically put it, when Faith asked once: _The Cabots talk only to the Lodges, and the Lodges talk only to God._ And yet, for all her never fail pinkies-up 'tude, there's never a disapproving tut-tut to be heard. Closest she got was that very first day.

_Take it or leave it,_ Diana had said. _Only you can decide to waste your time._

_I came for the sherry,_ Faith mumbles, around a bite of crumbling shortbread. _And the cookies._

In retrospect, the more she thinks about it, the more she's convinced her Watcher had to have been a closet case. As if that line of work didn't come with enough hassles. Who knew how many assignments she'd had under her belt before getting stuck with a walking issue factory? Faith had made her own availability clear, more clumsily than with Wilkins later on, but with the same negative results. Big surprise. Poor woman had probably been terrified of getting busted for perversion.

Or maybe the attraction had been mutual.

Her suppressed crush and unspoken respect grew into what might have been called unrequited love. And yet with no proof of her new teacher's wild tales, Faith had no choice but to remain the eternal skeptic. Ever the doubting Tina. Until --

Out of nowhere, a lightning sized hit of the purest shit you ever had roars to life inside of her. In the blink of an eye, before the book hits the floor, she can feel the connection. Every one of them.

"She's dead." Faith doesn't know what she's saying. The line across her throat tingles and burns, an echo of Kendra's final agonizing moments. For the split part of a second, she holds all the moments of their lives.

Then the connection fades.

But the power remains.

The patterns on the rug begin to swirl. Mutating under her fingertips.

Diana's helping her stand, looking more serious than ever before.

"You are the Slayer."

The patterns shimmer and coalesce. Taking on new form.

The form of a labyrinth.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"We have to get out of here." Willow is slowly turning green, staring at the dead fish floating in the water.

"We just got here." Faith knows she ought to be scared. Instead, she feels vaguely irritated.

Something's not right.

She'd only had a grand total of one month with Diana after being Called. Six months before that, pretty much all of it wasted dicking around. Noone but herself to blame. Then Kakistos had torn her Watcher apart right in front of her, and Faith had

( _say it_ )

fled to California. In search of a legend.

"This isn't my room." The fear in Willow's voice is shot through with a healthy undercurrent of confusion. "I had different posters."

Faith raises an eyebrow, pointing at the Dixie Chicks adorning the wall. "College experiment?"

"You weren't the only one to date a musician." Willow looks to be well on her way from green to red. "We have to get out of here."

"You said that already," Faith points out.

"Something's coming." The witch's insistent fear is starting to sink in. Faith can feel the too-familiar pricking of her thumbs and elsewhere that says evil is afeet.

"We can hole up here." Faith steps up to the door, peering out through the circle of glass and metal. The stale smell of motel squalor looms strong in her nostrils. The hallway outside is deserted, devoid of life.

"It's not safe here." Willow clutches her stake to her chest, casting a nervous glance around the room. "They don't need an invitation."

"Bring 'em on." Faith grips her own stake tight, ready for battle. "I got my own place."

"I guess you do." Willow looks around as the room shifts. Impressed by the suddenly immaculate housekeeping, if no less nervous. "Bay window and a Playstation."

"My thirty silver." The bitterness of Faith's chuckle is lost in memory. "Least I looked good."

"I never would have guessed." Willow takes in the Slayer's foofy pink dress, her fear apparently forgotten in a renewed lust for life. Among other things.

"You think I can pull it off?" Faith can feel old insecurities rear their ugly heads. "The femme thing?"

Willow's voice softens. "You do clean up nice."

"I ain't the only one." Faith purses her lips in lewd appreciation, running her eye over sleek leather pants, the barely contained curves therein. "When did you start wearing big sister's clothes?"

"When I put away childish things." Willow bows her head, a gathering storm of grey and black threads enveloping the witch's form in a caress more intimate than her clothing. "But I came a little late to the party."

Faith watches in fascination, rooted to the spot.

"Party's over."

Willow's eyes flutter open, the black of infinite space.

"Time to play."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"I've got it," Kelly declares. "You sound just like my uncle Ernie."

"Is that a good sound?"

"Well, I never actually had an uncle Ernie, as far as I know. But if I did? You're exactly what he'd sound like."

"Huh." Her unseen companion seems unoffended. "Surprised I ain't already dead."

"Why's that?"

"Watch your foot -- right there." Another hawking spit rings out. Ernie is obviously a chronic smoker and-or drinker. Probably both. "Let's just say I shouldn't be tellin' tales outta turn and move on."

"Okay." Kelly clears her own throat, trying to be delicate. Also just plain quiet. "I really don't think you showing yourself to me would be a problem."

"You think?" The skepticism bears a faint tinge of something more positive.

"Honestly, by now -- you've probably built it up too much. So I'll be super disappointed, because there's no way you can live up to the hype." Kelly decides it's only fair to consider the worst case. "Unless you're like, Cthulhu-universe level ugly. People just _look_ at you and...explode."

"That could be pretty cool. Um --" An embarrassed cough. "Not that I want _you_ to explode."

"Well, that's good of you." The jungle is encroaching further on her strip of sand, the beach narrowing as she retraces her steps. "Maybe you could make _him_ explode."

"Your stalker, right?" The weary sigh. "Here I'm havin' my first decent conversation in a coconut's age, and we gotta cop a freakin' serial killer. Tellin' ya, I'm puttin' some serious screening on that website."

Kelly blinks, then again for good measure. She's considering slapping herself when she forces herself to snap out of it.

" _Serial killer?_ " She manages not to yell, the words coming out in a sibilant hiss that echoes down the beach. The descent of night is near complete, the last rays of sunlight fading from the air.

"Hey, this long with no accidents is nothin' to sneeze at. Considerin' my boss --" A frustrated growl causes Kelly to flinch.

"Sorry, babe." The voice is indeed contrite. "Not used to bein' off the leash. Still figurin' out just how far I can go."

"What are you?" Suddenly the answer to this is even more important than the question of how to deal with an armed and homicidal maniac hot on her trail.

"Kid, you don't know what you're askin'." The bitter chuckle sends a flock of geese crawling down her exposed skin. "Off the clock, I might as well be nothin' at all."

"I know you can't talk about your work. Or your boss. You said that." Kelly presses on, pursuing some unnamed instinct. "But what about that bastard trying to kill me? Is _he_ in your job description?"

"Suppose it was just a matter of time." The fatalism is absolute. "You can still make it to a safe spot."

"This island isn't that big!" Panic rises, hot and thick. "I've been all over it!"

"And shouldn't that be tellin' ya somethin'?"

"Has your boss ever told you that you are _no help at all?_ "

"More'n I can count." Ernie's humor is once more dead serious. "C'mon, kid."

Is that a shadow in the trees, begun to move?

"You can do it."

Reality slows to a crawl.

Then becomes a blur.

_Think fast --_

 

 

* * *

 

 

She was here.

"She was _right here_ , dammit!"

His knife itches and hums for want of sinking in. Everything had been right and proper. More than perfect.

But how much longer could his creation go unspoiled? He'd never attempted a work of this magnitude. Even the very tropical heat conspired against him, accelerating its corruption.

A parched and feeble groan escapes his lips as he contemplates his options. The insistent song of the knife rises again, demanding his own flesh.

_You need her._

"The other one," he mutters. "Both of 'em. _All_ of 'em..."

_The master is weak._ Words dance upon the night air, black on black, somehow visible to the straining remnants of his sight. _You are the master._

"I'm not strong." The knife twitches in his grasp. "Whatever you need -- I'm not the guy."

_How do you know?_ The insistent question insinuates itself between his objections. _Things are different now._

"It's never been like this." He has to acknowledge that. As if mollified, the blackness comes to rest before him, swarming in quiet anticipation.

_Then you know what to do._

Ebon flame skirls down the bloody length of steel in his hand. For the merest moment there is something like fear; simple human instinct that shies away from the source of heat and light. But the fire is as black as his soul, a chill command from the now clamoring voices given life.  
  
 _Tell us you know what to do._

However impossible, what remains is the truth. That he finally has the power.

The power he always dreamed of.

He holds up the blade, as it begins to burn.

"Kill them all."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"I don't think you understand." Faith can feel her normally precise diction slipping away, along with her glasses and any semblance of control over an increasingly delicate situation. She'd made the mistake of assuming she was safe on her own turf. "It's not always about power."

"You know who says that?" Willow is ignoring her, scanning the floor to ceiling bookcases, regarding their contents with an air of contempt. "People who don't have any."

"And you do?" Faith manages her own healthy level of scorn. "What exactly are you rebelling against?"  
  
"Whaddya got?" Willow cracks a smile, one hand on her hip. The leather jacket is in stark contrast to the stylish pants, scuffed and beaten from years of abuse. Faith remembers how she first found the girl, surrounded by her fellow criminals, every inch the defiant delinquent.

She frowns, dismissing another memory. But of course. It had always been this way...

"I'm not a bad girl for its own sake." Willow drops a slow and sultry wink. "It's just more fun."

"For how long?" Faith knows this is a losing battle. Still, it's only one part of the war for someone's soul.

"Long enough." Willow dismisses her lofty arguments with a single wave. "Longer if I don't have some do-good Mrs. Peel trying to put me on the straight and narrow. All that talk about rebellion, you might want to remember you're talking to an _American_."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Faith shakes her head in confusion. For a moment her accent wavers like her thoughts, wobbling toward a fatal tilt. "This isn't..."

"Interesting." Willow nods, turning in place with a growing frustrated expression. "You're right. It's very uninteresting. So you can be very uninteresting without me, and I'll be leaving now. As soon as I find the damn door," the redhead concludes under her breath.

"It's not that simple." Faith knows this for a fact, though she'd be hard pressed to put it in words. In fact everything is suddenly impossible to understand, let alone explain. "There was a door around here _somewhere_..."

The room begins to twist, bringing a lurch from her stomach.

"You see that?"

Willow's muffled reply seems to signify affirmation. But the words are lost in the chaos as Faith is suddenly whipped off her feet, flung skyward by a silent hurricane. For that split second she can see it all, laid out beneath her far below in perfect orderly display; every last inch of the labyrinth, false turns and dead ends, from start to finish.

For that moment, she remembers who she is.

She can hear Willow call her name.

Then even that is lost in the storm.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The cocoon of energy shudders, disturbances rippling across its surface. Inside the magician remains immobile, his eyes shut tight against the horror without and within. All in vain.

All for nothing.

He had been a poor steward in neglecting his responsibilities. His own sickness infected the land which had brought him such joy. This petty killer was but a symptom. Times past, he might have taken some pleasure in watching such a small thing receive his inevitable due. Now he could only watch, and grieve.

_A poor lie at best._

The meat of his body shivers. Not the unspoken voice of the void, it takes him a moment to realize these thoughts are his own. Of course it isn't true; he can do so much more. He only has to choose.

Or do nothing.

And let everything be devoured.

 

 

* * *

 

 

She can remember her last meal, in perfect detail. Part of the obvious reason is that ever since the horrorshow, that's exactly how Kelly's been thinking of it. Her last meal. Maybe if she'd known she was facing a death sentence, she'd have picked something better. Assuming you were ditching the diet anyway, better to go for a real splurge, not some reheated airport deepfry.

"What happened?" Through the dim haze, Kelly realizes she's expecting an answer. Those long-ago contents of her stomach are rising, threatening to spew as her chaotic thoughts chase each other around the skyscraper's edge, facing certain death by vertigo. Despite the darkness, her near-complete inability to see her hand in front of her face, she is most certainly, absolutely Somewhere Else.

"Nice work, kid."

The rumbling chuckle nearly startles her out of her skin. "E-Ernie?"

"Guess so." The humor fades, replaced by practicality. "Got a light?"

"You're freaking _invisible_!" All caution is thrown to the wind in a burst of outrage. "You're all magical! Why don't you do something besides make smartass comments?"

No reply is forthcoming. Kelly realizes she can actually hear a quiet wheezing breath, seemingly inches away.

"Are you sitting next to me?"

"Um." The embarrassed cough is a dead giveaway. "Standin', actually."

"Friends don't quibble over details." Kelly decides to risk it all. "Or let each other get hacked to pieces."

"We're friends?" The surprise in the voice is evident.

"Not if you let me get hacked to pieces." She clamps down on the whirling thoughts, trying focus. "Now what the hell did I just do?"

"Your will." Another cough. "Which could include a light. If you wanted."

"You're insane." Kelly shakes her head in despair. "This whole place is insane. I'm gonna die crazy, talking to someone who isn't even there..."

"You're not crazy," Ernie declares. "Magick is real, you just did it, and you're gonna need to do it again. Unless your Mister Sunshine decides to take a powder. Which with the boss bein' incapacitated -- or incapacitatin' himself -- ain't too bloody likely."

This time it's Kelly who finds herself unable to speak.

"You wanted to be somewhere else." Ernie's irritation rings through loud and clear. "Probably as far away from this guy as possible. But the only way outta here's the way ya came in, so -- here y'are."

"Are you --" She tries to wrap her brain around it. "Are you saying I _teleported?_ "

"Nah. You didn't go anywhere. Just moved the rest around ya."

"Just." Kelly shuts her eyes in frustration, tears threatening to leak from within. "So if I want light, I just --"

A thousand suns spring to life.

"Jesus." A dry swallow provides little relief, the memory echoing down the beach in an almost visible wave as it dies away into nothingness.

"Points for style." She'd almost forgotten he was there. Wherever he is. "Thought you chicks were all about the extended play."

"I did that." Kelly tests the idea. It doesn't suck. "How?"  
  
"This place has power." She can hear the shrug, the unspoken implication that carries the full weight of natural law. "Brings out the best in people. And the worst."

"Light." Her thoughts collide in sudden panic. "Light, dammit! Give me --"

The flare of power dwarfs the last, and yet her eyes do not burn or flinch from the sight. She's standing barefoot on a narrow strip of sand, as unfamiliar as the others before it. On one side the trees, casting shadows twice their height from her desperate illumination; on her other the glittering black foam of the sea, capped with sparkling pearlescent peaks.

"Oh." The panic is suddenly gone, replaced by wonder. "I did that."

"Don't get cocky." Ernie's warning hovers at the edge of her thoughts. All at once her light is growing dim, a grey haze slowly infiltrating her sphere of influence as the shadows grow ever longer, fingers reaching out to claim her.

"What's happening?"

But as her pounding pulse goes redline, Kelly knows full well.

" _Hello, little girl._ "

He's here.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Wherever she was, wherever they were. It's gone.

And so is she.

Someone else is in danger. Not sure how she knows that. Not just the one she knows ( _who?_ ). Someone she doesn't know at all.

But the raging storm has her. Tossed and turned, separated from

( _who?_ )

Where is she?

Lost.

Empty.

Alone.

 

 

* * *

  



	5. "Holiday" (conclusion)

> _All that we've been through_  
>  Brings my soul so close to you  
> Why not cast your fears aside  
> We can laugh until we cry... 

 

 

 

 

_Alone._

Just as he wanted; as he had so carefully arranged. To be sealed away

( _where?_ )

Through the eyes of his construct, the magician sees her pain and terror. She may be frail of form, but her untested spirit is a mighty one. Enough to withstand and even conquer. If she can but bring herself to choose.

Outside the gathering void presses inward, clouding his vision. The swirling gyres have long since surpassed his control, born from stray magicks and the isle's own natural energies, grown fat on fear and worse from decades worth of visiting tourists. It would be the work of an instant to break these bonds, awaken from his self-imposed slumber; less than half a thought to rise up and slaughter this cowardly worm who terrorized and threatened an innocent.

If he but chose.

His eyes remain shut, his breath unwavering, but a thrill of admiration runs through him. Clever, desperate girl, to find the final labyrinth of the mind and remove herself entirely from the very plane of physical existence. Of course the pretender followed behind -- although, to the magician's amusement, only after a moment of impotent rage before instinct triumphed, and the assassin stepped into darkness without a trace.

A shame, he thinks, that she must surely perish. And yet even in her raw and untrained state, this battle promises to be most glorious.

And yet, there are things more beautiful.

If only he could remember.  


 

* * *

 

 

Below her the world glows. From up here it's all so simple, laid out like an oh-so perfectly put-together puzzle, everything so carefully designed. The way has never been so clear; _the obvious optimal decision tree..._

No, wait. That's Willow-talk --

Faith shakes her head at the jarring impact that rattles her metaphysical teeth. The sensation of being Diana Dormer yet _herself_ , aware of both at once, has likewise fled. The Watcher's absence leaves a ragged hole in her thoughts, the pain of loss freshly renewed.

She stumbles on, struggling to stay focused. The memory of the proper path is clear; the way through the labyrinth to the other side. To Willow.

Whoever she was now.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The echo of conflicting memory still reverberates throughout her soul as Willow disengages, wrestling free of the binding geas. The sight of the labyrinth laid out beneath in all its glory -- two interconnected patterns, ebony and crimson -- is seared into her brain, the afterimage a smear from the blinding light. She can see Faith at the opposite end, entering the maze...

With a juddering snap, her will is done. The distance between them is bridged, leaving Willow just enough time to blink before the illusion comes roaring back, full strength

( _oops_ )

together once more, in the center.

"Something's different." With growing dismay, Willow-Diana looks around the shabby motel room. "Wait. How come you're still you?"

"Talk later." Faith grimaces, pulling off her leather jacket, flinging it one-handed onto the bed. "Bitch dislocated my shoulder."

"What --"

"Hold me."

_Oh, Goddess..._

"Tighter," the Slayer snaps, her irritation plain.

Diana -- _Willow_ , she thinks in desperation, striving to hold on to identity -- has never been strong. Never been the one they look to, or the one they look at that way. But those desperate eyes have captured hers and the body writhing in her grasp is both hers to command and beyond her control as Faith shudders, a sickening crack resounding throughout the room.

"Better...damn." A shaky finger trails down her cheek. "She really got me wound up..."

Willow wants nothing more than to shut her eyes. But they remain open, as rough hands close upon her throat.

"I could hurt you," Faith whispers.

"I know." Willow doesn't open her eyes.

"Then why?" The slightest tremble runs through the Slayer's grip.

Now she does. "I trust you now."

"You shouldn't." Faith stares back, unmoving.

"We're in this together." Willow nods at the cell door. "But it's your call."

Faith's hands fall to her sides as Willow steps forward and pulls the door open. Blinding sunlight spills through and the Slayer seems ready to stand there forever until Willow grabs her by the hand and forces her into motion, through the doorway. Into the --

"Great outdoors." Faith stares at the park full of frolicking picnickers as if they're secretly demons in disguise. "I don't get it."

"You shouldn't." Willow peers over the side of the bridge at their combined reflection. "We're still under someone's spell."

Faith frowns. "Yours?"

"Are you?"

"Not ready to face the music."

"I can get us out of here." But Willow's whisper is lost on the breeze.

Reality twists. The blue of the open sky shifts and solidifies into four walls, a window. A bedroom.

This smile.

This moment.

Before the bullet.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

This is what she was afraid of? This pathetic, mewling creature?

"Uh...Kelly?" The voice is more hesitant. "Kid?"

The passivity is gone. Swept away by her brief connection to the unknown sorceress. And the woman's consort as well, herself a creature of considerable power. In that instant the fuel of her passion found its spark and roared into being. She is a star, and raging to consume.

"I know it feels good. But don't get carried away --"

She flexes her hands, feeling ebon flames skirl down her fingertips. Before her the would-be assassin lies face down on the endless stretch of sand, cowering in mortal terror. A pudgy little man with a receding hairline, thick black plastic frames, his bloodstained sweater vest the scariest thing about him.

_You've been so scared all this time,_ some part of her manages. _Now pull back the curtain and see. He's no predator..._

_"Vision..."_ Kelly cocks her head to one side, considering the thing below. _"...becomes reality."_

She comes back to that reality that is now a blackened crater in the sand, matching the smoke drifting up from her hands. Kelly stares at the hole in the ground, clutching at the fleeting traces of awareness that had funneled her instinctive outburst into a killing blow.

"Most impressive!"

Kelly spins around, but the voice is new. And while the speaker is rather ugly, the sight of him doesn't cause her to keel over on the spot. Tall, wearing only ornamented black and purple robes, this is overshadowed by his blue skin, the quadruple devil's horns and mandarin's mustache with a bit of something knotted about the beard. His eyes are endless pools of black, without a trace of pupil or soul.

"Kid?"

Kelly almost flinches at the more familiar voice, the scratch old invisible uncle, once again as always located just behind her. "Yeah?"

"Don't sign anything."

The blue newcomer throws his head back and emits a hearty chuckle. "I believe you were told not to interfere?"

"Dammit." The soft swear is all the more poignant for the unmistakable note of defeat. "Sorry, kid. You're on your own."

Kelly swallows, desperate at the lack of power inside her. The blue creature shakes his head.

"Oh please, let's not get off on the wrong foot. I lose too many good prospects that way. My name --" He fixes her with that piercing, empty gaze. "...is D'Hoffryn."

Somehow, she senses this is important.

"And I have a proposition for you."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Even if we stayed in here forever..." Willow's voice trembles. "I could lose you."

"Doesn't matter." Faith stands tall and proud, holds her head up high. "I trust you."

 

 

* * *

 

 

She can still feel that odd little presence just below and behind; hear the pained wheeze of breath that signifies some sort of physical form. Until with a quiet sigh of relief, there's a rustling in the sand, like something fell. And the comforting wheeze is gone, the power now at her back making that she wielded only moments ago look like a child's halting first recital.

This is the grand master.

"I see." D'Hoffryn's disappointment is clear. "Well. If you're going to do _that_ \--"

"I just did." The dry chuckle over her shoulder doesn't sound too evil. Kelly makes the reluctant decision not to turn around just yet.

D'Hoffryn emits a hefty sigh. "You could have at least let me get through the sales pitch."

"Higher priorities, my dear chap." From behind her comes a sensation like soap bubbles, popping one by one. D'Hoffryn frowns and shakes his head.

"I knew it was a mistake to let you live."

"No it wasn't." The voice is cheerful, if a bit distracted. "Never go for the kill --"

"When you can go for the pain," D'Hoffryn finishes. "It's nice to know you haven't forgotten."

A touch of sad humor. "How could I forget?"

Kelly can no longer remain silent. "How do you know him?"

"He killed my wife. And he didn't let me live." The voice turns cold. "He insisted on it."

Kelly absorbs this, her mind awhirl.

"Yes, well --" D'Hoffryn coughs and covers his mouth. "At least I got a good vengeance demon out of it."

"Until she turned on you," the voice notes, with no little amusement.

"A single act of betrayal cannot undo years of loyal service." Still, D'Hoffryn looks slightly embarrassed. "And speaking of the blink of an eye -- enjoy the rest of your pathetic lives."

With a suitably dramatic gesture, he vanishes in a cloud of red smoke.

Kelly's at the end of her rope, staring at the drifting haze. If something taps her on the shoulder right now, she's likely to take someone's head off --

"Don't worry." She can hear the smile; practically visualize the kindly uncle, the polar opposite of the drunken layabout who had become her unseen companion. "That's his way of saying we won't see him again."

"Who are you?" Kelly manages to keep her voice steady. "And where'd the other one go? The little guy?"

"A part of me. The ugliest part." A note of regret enters the voice. "Too long apart."

She wrestles for sanity, wondering if she's going mad, or blind.

"Can I look at you?"

Another audible smile. "It won't hurt."  
  
Kelly turns before she can stop. She doesn't turn to stone, or have a heart attack; isn't struck blind or driven mad. She's looking at a kindly older man in a loose grey robe, bearing a crooked walking stick a foot taller than himself. Far from the screen image of a wizened and emaciated sorceror, this fellow looks more akin to Sean Connery, a former boxer aged to perfection. His eyes are sharp and keen, his neatly trimmed hair and salt-and-pepper goatee framing a gentle smile.

"You can call me Michael." The smile wavers. "And I'm so sorry you had to go through all that."

She can taste the hidden power once more, buried deep inside of her. He nods.

"You have great potential. D'Hoffryn would have taken that -- twisted it to his ends." Michael takes a deep breath, his eyes full of unspoken experience. "Used it to inflict pain."

Kelly looks around. It's not an illusion. From out of somewhere, light is slowly filling the air and sky, the darkness fading and retreating into shadow.

"The finite nature of a mortal lifespan normally prevents suffering from being truly eternal. Unless you hit the proverbial jackpot and manage an actual claim on a soul." The rising breeze ruffles Michael's hair, but he's still staring out at the waves. "But mine was already stained -- scarred beyond measure. The only thing that kept me out of the clutches of the various Powers? Absolute and unswerving neutrality."

A notion flares in her mind. "So you just...sat back and watched?"

"Until I could bear no more."

She takes a step, and then another, standing by his side; joining him in his quest for some kind of vision. The waves roll on, offering no reply.

She clears her throat. "It's beautiful."

When Michael speaks, his voice is thick with emotion.

"She thought so, too."

 

 

* * *

 

 

The dreamlike sensation stretches, enveloping Willow in a shroud of memory. False and true, might-haves and never-wills alike in a deafening spiral. For a moment she hangs in the maelstrom, seeing herself as if from outside.

_Wiping away the tears as she tries to pick up the box of broken crayons. Nearby, Faith's angry snarl mixes with Harmony's squeal of terror..._

_Sobbing in Faith's arms, unable to take her eyes off of Buffy's broken and lifeless body. So far to fall..._

_Sitting in the Bronze, still wearing her dorkiest freshman outfit; hat, tights, skirt and unmatching sweater. Trying not to shiver as the Slayer's fingers inch further up her trembling thighs..._

_"Free sample?" A bald fellow in a suit and wire rims holds out a plate. "I personally recommend the Wensleydale. It's got blueberries..."_

She's wet.

She's also sitting half upright, hands sunk into the sand. A wave crashes over her and she coughs, spitting out water.

"Shit --" Strong hands grab her by the arms, gently patting between her shoulder blades. "You okay?"  
  
Willow looks up to find an equally dripping Faith. The Slayer's worry is plain as day, the very model and picture perfect of _concerned girlfriend._

"Yeah."

Faith looks torn, on the precipice of fatal decision before the words tumble out, almost against her will. "I love you."

Willow smiles. "I know."

That gets her a sock in the arm. Which stings even though Faith isn't really trying, and then the Slayer is enveloping her, toppling her over into the water in a giggling heap of hugging. And kissing.

Faith cradles her cheeks, staring down into her eyes. "What am I gonna do with you?"

Willow chuckles, pulling her lover down.

"I don't know about you..."

Their lips meet.

"...but I can't wait to find out."

 

 

 

 

> _FAITH THE VAMPIRE SLAYER  
>  2004-2011  
> 2018_

 

 

 

* * *

  


**Author's Note:**

> Apart from the opening dream sequence, my favorite parts of this are the flashbacks to Faith's first Watcher. I realize in retrospect I should have had one more of those in the final act.
> 
> The B story with the magician, the girl and the serial killer was always extremely vague even when I was first writing it, which probably contributed to my frustration at the time. Rather than throwing it out and starting from scratch, I chose to smooth out the lumps in the gravy as best I could while trying not to spice it up overly much.


End file.
